Real-Life. “My Daughter Thinks I Should Go to a Nursing Home”: She Doesn't Understand That I Want to Live in My Own Home

Marta. My only child, my pride, my joy.

I was sitting in my favorite armchair, looking out the window at the garden I had been tending for so many years. It was spring. Flowers were starting to bloom, birds were building nests. I felt the warm sun on my face and thought that all of this was still mine.

But not for my daughter.

— Mom, we have to talk — she said, standing in the threshold of the living room.

Marta. My only child, my pride, my joy. I always believed that I raised her well. That she would have a heart for me.

— What, darling? — I asked calmly, though something in her tone made me feel uneasy.

She sighed, as if preparing for a difficult conversation.

— About you. And about this house.

I frowned.

— What about him?

She sat down across from me, leaning in slightly.

— Mom, I think you should go live somewhere where you'll be taken care of.

I felt my heart sink.

— Somewhere, where…?

— In a nursing home — she said quietly, as if she was afraid of my reaction.

The world stopped existing for a moment.

— In the nursing home? — I repeated mechanically.

— Mom, you're alone. This house is too big. It's hard for you to move around here, it's hard to take care of everything…

— I'll manage — I cut her off sharply.

— But…

— I can handle it! — I raised my voice, something I hadn't done in years.

Marta looked at me with a patience I couldn't stand. As if I were a child who didn't understand what was good for her.

— I don't want to go there — I said firmly.

— But Mom…

— I don't want to.

She didn't understand.

She didn't understand that this house was all I had left.

That every corner held memories – my husband's laughter, the childish pitter-patter of Marta's feet, the smell of baking bread that wafted here every Sunday.

That if he took that away from me, he'd take everything away from me.

She kept returning to the subject for the next few days.

— Mom, I really don't want you to be alone.

— I'm not alone. I have this house.

— But I'm worried…

— Are you worried or do you want to have peace? — I asked sharply.

She fell silent.

And I understood.

To her I was a burden.

Instead of an old house and an old mother, she could have a comfortable life without remorse.

And then it hit me that my daughter, my only child, didn't see me as a mother.

Just a problem to solve.

In the evening I sat at the table and looked at phone.

I waited.

I waited for her to call. For her to say: Mom, I'm sorry. Mom, I understand.

But the phone was silent.

And then I knew that I no longer had a place in her life.

Just like she wanted to take my place here away from me.

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