I took in my elderly mother, but now I regret it and can’t send her back. I feel ashamed in front of others.

Today I need to pour this intimate story onto paper, so heavy it presses on my chest like a slab. I’m searching for wise, calm advice to help me escape the swamp I’ve fallen into.

Everyone carries their own burdens. We must learn not to judge, but to extend a hand when someone is drowning in despair. No one is safe—today you point fingers, tomorrow you might be caught in the same trap of fate.

I brought my mother to live with me. She had just turned 80 and lived alone in a village in Soria, in a house with a crumbling roof. Her strength was failing: trembling legs, weak hands. Seeing her wither away alone, I decided to bring her to my apartment in Valladolid. I never imagined the burden it would place on me, or how much it would upend my life.

At first, everything seemed fine. Mom settled into my three-bedroom apartment, apparently calm. She didn’t interfere, stayed in her room—prepared with great care: a soft bed, wool blanket, a small TV. She only came out to use the bathroom or the kitchen. I managed her diet: no fats, low salt, steamed vegetables. Her medication was expensive, paid out of my own salary. Her pension was barely enough for anything—what more could I expect?

But after a few months, everything fell apart. The city—dull and gray like concrete—wore her down. She imposed her own rules, picked fights over trivial things: dust left untouched, bland soup, forgotten tea. Nothing pleased her. Then came the manipulations: theatrical sighs, complaints that she lived better in the village than in this “prison.” Her words cut deep, but I held back my resentment.

My patience cracked. Tired of the complaints and shouting, I started numbing my nerves with pills. After work, I would stop outside the building, unable to bring myself to go in. Behind the door wasn’t a home—it was a battlefield where I lost every day. My life became a never-ending nightmare.

Sending her back to the village? Impossible. The house is in ruins, without heating or basic conditions. How could I abandon her? And the people around us… I can already imagine their judging stares, the whispers: “The daughter who abandoned her mother… What a disgrace!” Guilt eats away at me, but I can’t take it anymore.

This knot inside me is overwhelming. I’m exhausted, empty. How can I go on living under the same roof? How do I deal with her stubbornness, that constant wall of reproach? How can I soothe her without losing myself? I’m trapped, sinking in despair.

Have you ever experienced something similar? How do you deal with elderly parents who wear away your patience? How do you stay sane when a loved one becomes your burden? Please share your story—I need a light in this dark tunnel.