**Personal Diary**
I can’t take it anymore. Where can I leave my elderly mother?
I don’t know how much longer I can hold out. At first, I thought I could handle it all. I thought it was just a difficult time, that love and patience would help me get through it. But now I’m at my limit—emotionally, physically, morally. Maybe someone will judge me for these words. Or maybe someone will understand because they’ve been through the same thing. I want to tell my story, not to justify myself, just to vent.
My name is Lucía, and I’m the youngest daughter. I have an older brother, three years older than her. Mom had us when she was already old: him at 42, me at 45. My parents took a while to have children, and when we finally arrived, Mom saw us as a miracle. We were her reason for living. Despite the age difference with other mothers, she gave us everything—love, warmth, and education.
When I was seventeen, my father died. For my brother and me, it was a terrible blow, but for Mom, it was the end of the world. It took her a long time to recover, and I tried to support her as best I could. My brother went to school, then immigrated to the United States—to work, pursue a career, and start a family. We were left alone. Mom and I.
Many years have passed since then. Mom is seventy-eight now. And I’m still here, by her side. Only she’s not just my mother anymore. She’s a person who needs constant care, almost twenty-four hours a day. And I can’t take it anymore.
Mom forgets basic things. She leaves the iron on, forgets to turn off the gas, puts the kettle in the refrigerator and the milk in the cupboard. I’ve told her a thousand times not to help me—that I do everything. But she continues, out of goodwill, out of habit, out of feeling useful. Only now she’s in my way, even though it pains me to say it. I’m ashamed to tell her, “Mom, don’t do it,” because I can see how it hurts her to feel that way, incapable.
The worst happened recently. Mom went out and didn’t come back. She forgot where she was going, she forgot where she lived. We searched for her for more than three hours. I called everyone I knew, scoured the neighborhood, and nearly went crazy. Finally, a friend saw her on the other side of Madrid and told me. Mom was lost, frozen, scared. And I was exhausted, devastated, empty.
And this isn’t something exceptional. It’s my daily life. Constant tension. Constant fear that something might happen. The responsibility that crushes me. I can’t relax for a minute. I wake up at night at the slightest noise. I don’t leave the house. I don’t live—I survive. I’m no longer his daughter, I’m his caregiver. And it’s killing me, little by little.
And I have a family too. A husband, children, grandchildren. I love them, I’ve lived for them. But now I only have room for Mom. And I feel like I’m fading away. I’m tired. Exhausted. I cry at night because I don’t know how to go on.
I don’t even dare say out loud, “Where can I leave her?” The word “leave” sounds like a betrayal. As if she were a stranger, not their daughter. But there are nursing homes. There are centers with special care. Why can’t I think about it without guilt?
Because we were raised that way. Because the mother is sacred. Because she brought me into the world, raised me, protected me. And now it’s my duty to take care of her. But a duty shouldn’t be a condemnation. It’s not a cross to bear. And yet, I feel as if a stone has been hung around my neck and I’m told, “Carry it until you fall.”
My brother helps with money, calls, and worries. But he’s on the other side of the ocean. He doesn’t see how Mom cries at night, how she gets lost in her own house, how she mistakes my name for my grandmother’s. He doesn’t run wild when she doesn’t come back from the supermarket. He doesn’t pick up the dishes he breaks when he drops them. He lives peacefully. And here I am, in this house, in this circle with no way out.
I don’t know what to do. I just want to breathe. To wake up without anxiety. To go see my daughter without fearing Mom will burn down the house while I’m gone. I’m not asking for much. Just a little bit of life. A little bit of silence. A little bit of myself.
Maybe someone will criticize me. They’ll say I’m a bad daughter. That you have to put up with your mother until the end. But let them try living like this for a year, two, five. And then tell me how it feels to be a living person, but without the right to rest.
I don’t want to abandon Mom. I want her to be okay. To be cared for, to be safe. I want to love her, not fear for her. But right now—I can’t take it anymore. And if there’s a place where she’s better, where she’s cared for, where she’s watched over… shouldn’t I consider it?
I don’t know. I really don’t know. But I can’t go on like this anymore.
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