It’s 8:57 PM, and I’m tucking my mother into bed.
I place her water on the nightstand, smooth the blanket over her shoulders, and settle into the
chair next to her. We pray like we always do. Then, she says what she’s been saying for months:
“I’m ready to go home.”
She doesn’t mean the house she raised me in. She means home home. The one with no more
doctor’s appointments. No more pills sorted into plastic compartments. No more waiting.
And I just sit there, feeling the heavy weight of a love that wants her.
Here’s what nobody prepares you for—there’s a unique kind of heartache when your mother
stops fighting, and you’re still standing there with your gloves up, ready for battle. In our
community, we advocate.
But what happens when Mama’s not asking you to fight anymore? What happens when she’s
discovered a peace you can’t reach—and loving her well means letting her have it?
I’m learning that honoring an elderly mother doesn’t always look like fighting for more time.
Sometimes it looks like holding space for her readiness.
