A Modern Dilemma: Independence vs Care — for My Mother

There was a time when old age in itself was a curse. Parents feared it—not because of illness alone, but because of abandonment. Children moved on with their lives, and ageing parents were left behind, financially and physically weak, dependent on the mercy of others. In some families, this is still true.

In my case, the situation is different, and that difference is precisely what makes it difficult.

My father lived a full life. Financially disciplined, he lived well within his means, saved for the future, and remained physically fit with minimal health issues until he passed away at the age of 93, two years ago. My mother, now 86, is on the other side of that contrast. She has several health issues, is physically weak, has limited vision due to glaucoma, and her hearing is severely impaired. While she is literate to some extent, her exposure to worldly affairs was always limited, with my father managing most things.

After my father’s passing, my mother lived with me and my younger brother. Recently, she expressed a clear desire to move back to her own home and live there by herself. This is not because she has any friction with her daughters-in-law—quite the opposite. They take good care of her, with patience and respect. Her wish comes from something else entirely: the need for independence, familiarity, and the comfort of her own space, filled with decades of memories.

Is that an unreasonable desire?

Financially, it is expensive. But money is not the concern here. Even if she manages her personal hygiene and routine chores on her own, she still needs a helper—not just for physical support, but for confidence, reassurance, and bridging interactions with the outside world when needed. A helper alone costs around ₹25,000 a month.

She initially wanted to cook for herself. Within two days, she realised it was too much for her frugal body to handle. Yet she hesitated to let the helper cook due to deep-rooted traditions and reservations carried forward from another era.

What followed was an exhausting effort—by me and my wife—to simplify her living. Removing unnecessary items accumulated over decades. Shifting things from one room to another to make daily life easier. Even so, it quickly became evident that tasks as simple as lighting an oil diya or performing limited daily deity rituals were physically demanding for someone of her age.

I arranged for daily Brahmin-served food and ensured groceries and essentials were taken care of. Slowly, the reality began to sink in.

The house she wants to return to is nearly fifty years old. It is filled with memories—of a shared life, of routines, of a presence that is no longer there. Since leaving that house, she has been missing it deeply. Perhaps painfully.

My brother and I are always there at her call when needed. But commute takes long in modern cities as Hyderabad due to traffic congestions. 

And yet, the question remains.

Is it necessary—wise even—to set up an old, physically weak woman to live all by herself, just to preserve independence and memory?

Or are we, in our attempt to honour autonomy, quietly pushing responsibility into a more complicated, emotionally expensive corner?

This is not a story of neglect.
Nor is it a story of sacrifice.

It is a story of modern ageing—where love exists, resources exist, intentions are sincere, but answers are no longer simple. Where doing the right thing is not obvious, and every option carries its own form of loss.

Perhaps the hardest part of caring for ageing parents today is this:
we are no longer deciding between right and wrong—
we are choosing between two kinds of pain.