I welcomed my mom into my home to live with us permanently. It wasn’t planned in advance—one day, she just arrived with a single bag.
In that bag, there were stockings, slippers with the words *“World’s Best Grandma”* (a gift from my kids), a warm bathrobe, a blouse, and, for some reason, a pillowcase. She packed the bag herself.
For the past three weeks, an elderly little girl, almost like a four-year-old, has been living in my home. She’s slender, with snowy white hair tied into a bun, wearing cotton stockings that wrinkle slightly at the ankles.
She walks quietly down the hallway, shuffling softly in her slippers. She carefully stops at thresholds, lifting her feet high as though crossing invisible obstacles.
She smiles at the dog in the hallway. She hears invisible people and shares daily updates from them with me. She’s shy and sleeps a lot.
She nibbles on a piece of chocolate (I always leave chocolate for her in her room) and sips tea, holding the cup with both hands—one of them trembling.
She’s terribly afraid of losing the wedding ring on her frail hand and constantly checks to make sure it’s still there.
Suddenly, I see how old and vulnerable she really is. She’s simply let go, relaxed, and stopped pretending to be an adult. In every detail, she has entrusted her life entirely to me.
The most important thing for her is that I am at home. She breathes with such relief when I return that I try not to leave for long.
I’m back to cooking soup every day, just like I used to for my kids. Once again, there’s a bowl of cookies on the table.
How do I feel?
At first—fear. My mom had always been independent. For three years after my dad passed, she insisted on living alone. I understood her—for the first time in her life, at 88 years old, she was doing what she wanted. But old age takes its toll.
Now, I feel compassion for this fragile little universe, love, and tenderness. I know the path we are walking together.
I want this path to be happy for her—filled with warmth, comfort, homemade dumplings, and cutlets, and surrounded by her beloved daughter. Nothing else matters to her anymore.
I now have a daughter who’s 88 years old. And I’m grateful to have the chance to make her twilight years joyful and to ensure my own peace of mind, free of regret.
Mom, thank you for being mine. Please, stay with me for as long as you can… ❤️