I didn’t think I was a cruel daughter.
I thought I was being practical.
My father had passed away two years earlier, and he left the house to me. Not to my mother. Not to my siblings. To me.
At first, I didn’t understand why.
But when the paperwork was finalized, it became clear: Dad had planned ahead. He knew Mom’s health was declining. He knew the house would become too much.
And maybe he knew… I wouldn’t make hard decisions unless I had no choice.
I was 38, raising three children with my husband in a cramped apartment. Every month felt like survival — rent, groceries, school fees. Everything kept climbing.
Meanwhile, Mom lived alone in the old family home.
A big house.
A silent house.
A house filled with memories from a life that no longer existed.
Each visit, she looked smaller. Slower. Frailer.
But she always smiled as if nothing in the world could touch her.
One night, my husband finally said what we were both thinking.
“We can’t keep paying rent while that house sits there for one person who barely uses half of it.”
I hated hearing it.
But deep down, I knew he wasn’t wrong.
So I made the decision.
The one that would follow me forever.
I Told My Mom She Had to Leave
When I sat her down, I expected resistance.
Tears. Anger. Accusations.
I braced myself for, “After everything I sacrificed for you…”
But she didn’t say any of it.
She just stared at her tea cup quietly.
Then she looked up and gave me a soft smile.
“Alright,” she said.
I blinked. “That’s… it?”
She nodded.
“I don’t want to be a burden.”
My throat closed.
In that moment, I felt smaller than I ever had in my life.
Still, I kept going.
“I’ll find a good nursing home,” I rushed. “Somewhere close.”
She gently shook her head.
“No. Take me to the least expensive one.”
I frowned. “Mom, I can afford—”
She raised her hand.
“I know you don’t earn much. Don’t waste your money on your sick mother.”
She said it kindly.
Not bitter. Not resentful.
Just… like a mother who loved her child more than herself.
Then She Said Something That Broke Me
She stood slowly and walked to the window.
Outside, her small garden glowed in the morning light. She used to spend hours there.
Then she turned and said:
“I will only take my plant with me.”
I stared. “Your plant?”
She pointed to the large, old potted plant in the corner — the one she cared for like family.
“That one,” she said. “Promise me.”
I tried to laugh. “Mom, you can take whatever you want.”
But she shook her head.
“Only that.”
I Dropped Her Off
A week later, I found a nursing home.
It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t terrible. It was clean. Safe. Affordable.
The cheapest option that didn’t feel cruel.
She didn’t complain.
She didn’t cry walking through the doors.
She didn’t beg to go home.
She didn’t even look back.
She carried her plant like something sacred.
When I hugged her goodbye, she whispered:
“Don’t worry. You’re doing what you must.”
I wanted her to be angry.
It would have hurt less.
Instead, she kissed my cheek and said, “I love you.”
I drove home with my hands shaking on the steering wheel.
Forty Days Later, The Phone Rang
It was early morning.
An unfamiliar number.
“This is Maple Grove Nursing Home… I’m sorry to inform you…”
The rest blurred.
It felt like ice poured through my veins.
Forty days.
That’s how long she lived after I took her from her home.
My knees gave out. I slid down the kitchen wall and sobbed so hard my children ran in, frightened.
“Mommy… are you hurt?” my youngest asked.
I couldn’t answer.
Because the pain wasn’t on my body.
It was somewhere deeper.
The Funeral Was Quiet
My siblings came.
They cried. Hugged me. Said what people always say.
“She was such a good woman.”
“She didn’t deserve this.”
But underneath their words, I heard something else.
You did this.
And maybe they were right.
I couldn’t look at the coffin.
All I could see was her gentle smile when I told her she had to leave.
That forgiving smile.
The one that made everything worse.
