28May2025 Diary
I still remember the exact day Ethel closed her suitcase. She didnt even tremble; it was as if this would be easier to swallow. She sealed it with that delicate care she used for everythingeven when she was breaking me.
Did you grab your toothbrush? I asked from the doorway of the bedroom.
She looked at me as if Id just asked what time it was while the Titanic was still sinking.
Seriously, Ian? Is that all youve got left to say?
I dont know what else to say.
And that was the truth. By the third month every conversation ended the same way: in the narrow lane that lies between my mothers house and our marriage. It felt as if love were a cake that could only be cut in one particular way.
My mum called me a busybody yesterday, Ethel said, folding the blouse Id given her for our anniversary. For the fourth time this week.
She doesnt know what shes talking about. She has Alzheimers.
I know, I know. But lately youve stopped knowing what youre saying, what you feel, where my mother ends and I begin.
I sat on the bedon her side, which was already cold even though she was still asleep.
This is my mother, Ethel.
And Im your wife. Or I was. Im not even sure anymore.
Mother called from the sittingroom about thieves whod stolen her youth, probably still staring at her reflection in the mirror.
You have to
Go, Ethel said, her voice so weary it ached my bones. You always have to go.
When I returned after twenty minutesduring which I soothed Mum with biscuits and a photograph from her younger daysEthel was gone. On the pillow lay only a note:
I love you. But I cant love you from the waiting room of your own life any longer. Take care. Look after her.
I laughed. I laughed because otherwise I would have wept like a fool, and Mum was already confused enough.
Who left? Mum asked from the hallway, with that sharp clarity that sometimes struck her like a flash of lightning.
Ethel.
The one with the long hair?
Yes, mum.
Oh, she shrugged. She never liked me. Always watching the clock.
And there it wasmy whole world summed up in one sentence from a woman who could not recall her breakfast but remembered every tiny slight Ethel had ever hurled at her.
The first months were a blur of adult diapers, halfeaten plates and nights when Mum insisted I was her longlost brother from 1987.
Rory, why didnt you come to my funeral? she asked one evening.
Because I was busy being dead, Mum.
She scowled.
You’ve always been irresponsible.
Friends called me in the tone used at a funeral.
How are you, mate?
Fine. Mum thinks Im her dead brother, and my wife left me because I chose changing diapers over couples therapy. Dream, huh?
Did you try to talk to Ethel?
Yes. She told me that when Im ready to be her husbandnot just my mothers sonto look for her. Poetic, isnt it? Or devastating. I cant tell the difference.
One night Mum had a flash of lucidity. While I was giving her medication she looked at me and said:
You dumped her, didnt you? Your wife.
My throat tightened.
No, Mum, I didnt dump her. I just did what I thought was right.
And what was right? To ruin your life for someone who half the time cant even remember your name?
Mum
Im not stupid, Ian. Not yet. Her eyes filled with tears. I changed your diapers when you were a baby. Its only fair you change mine now. But it shouldnt cost you everything.
You gave me everything.
And thats why you must have something to give onward. She squeezed my hand with unexpected strength. Dont use me as an excuse not to live.
Thirty seconds later she no longer recognised me and asked if I had seen her son Ianhandsome but a little scattered.
Ill look for him, madam, I replied. Ill tell him his mother is waiting.
Dont let him be late, she said. Im starting to forget that Im waiting.
Eight months passed. Ethel never returned. Mums memory faded further, and I lingered in that limbo between sonlike devotion and romantic love, wondering whether they were really two sides of the same coin, just dressed differently.
Last night I found a photo from our wedding. Ethel beamed, I was smitten, and Mum wept in the front row because her baby had grown into a man. I showed the picture to Mum.
Who are these? she asked.
People who loved each other very much.
And they dont love each other now?
I dont know, Mum. Maybe they loved so much they had to let go.
She nodded as if she understood, though she was probably already forgetting the question.
Love hurts, she said suddenly.
Yes, Mum. It hurts terribly.
Then its real.
For the first time in months I smiled genuinely. It was truethis sharp pain, this guilt, this loss, all the impossible choiceshurt so deeply that they could only be love.
Love for Mum, who gave me life.
Love for Ethel, who tried to give it meaning.
And perhaps, one distant day, enough love for myself to realise that choosing doesnt make the other roads wrong; it just makes this one mine.
For now, as I brew Mums tea and delete the unsent messages to Ethel, I cling to the pain. It is the only proof that I am still alive, that once I was loved by two remarkable women who deserved more than I could ever give.
Ian? Mums voice called from the sittingroom.
Yes, Mum. Im here.
Who are you?
Someone who loves you very much.
How lovely, she smiled. How lovely to have someone.
And as I hand her the tea, I think Ethel was right.
And Mum was right.
I sit somewhere in the middle, still trying to work out which answer was correct in a equation that never really existed.
Lesson learned: when the heart is torn between duty and desire, the only sustainable path is the one that honors the love you still carry for yourself.
