After convincing her mother to move in with her family, Munira Shamim builds a deeper connection with her.
When my mom moved in with us this past summer, I felt conflicted. I was relieved to have her near, to care for her as she had once cared for me. But I also felt guilty, knowing that my comfort stemmed from her fragility. I looked forward to the intimacy of our days together, even as she resented being at my place.
My mom and dad were married for nearly 50 years, so when my dad passed, my mom lost more than a partner — she lost her anchor. Then came the slip-and-fall, the fractured femur, and surgery. It was clear that major decisions had to be made about her living situation. I gently asked if I could keep her car keys — forever. She begrudgingly gave them up. Then we decided that she would move in with us. The decision was practical, but heavy with emotion. Though we both knew it was for her safety, a part of me felt I was taking away her self-sufficiency — and maybe even her pride.
While my mom still struggles to accept her new living situation, I’ve found joy in every moment we share. I coax her with tenderness when she resists her daily exercises. I find satisfaction in brushing her hair and listening to her rants about inflation, politicians, and the decline in the quality of her beloved soap operas. These opinions, often shared over chai and samosas, are laced with her childhood stories, like climbing mango trees and building a bird cage. We laugh together when she’s happy, and I know when to stay quiet as she revisits painful memories that are long past but still raw.
Every smile and every moment of connection feels like a small act of love and defiance against the passage of time. And yet, beneath the comfort of these moments, a quiet thought lingers: Can I truly find peace in this, knowing what it has cost her?