That night, my seven-year-old yelled down the stairs that Grandma was “going somewhere.” I ran up and found a nursing home van in the driveway. My mom had called them herself. And when I looked around, half the house was empty. She had movers come earlier, taking everything that belonged to her — even the baby’s crib, because she had gifted it.
When I called her crying, she said, “This is what you get for being ungrateful. I cared for your children for years. Now that I can’t help, you want to throw me away.” Her fear of losing usefulness and independence came out as blame, but her words still hurt.
I wasn’t trying to abandon her. I simply couldn’t be a full-time nurse, full-time mother, and full-time provider. Something had to give. Now the house feels quiet, the kids ask for Grandma, and I don’t know how to answer.
I keep wondering: Was I wrong to ask for help, or was she wrong to turn love into a debt? Maybe neither of us meant harm. Maybe we were both just overwhelmed — two exhausted women on opposite sides of the same fear.
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