“I Brought My Dad to Live with Me. After a Month, I Sent Him Back. Now Everyone Thinks I’m Heartless”

When my father’s health started to decline, I knew I had to step in. He had always been a strong, independent man, but age and illness were taking their toll. My siblings and I discussed various options, and it was decided that he would come live with me. I was the only one with a spare room and a flexible work schedule. It seemed like the best solution at the time.

The first week was manageable. I set up his room with all the comforts he was used to, and we settled into a routine. I cooked his favorite meals, took him to his doctor’s appointments, and made sure he had everything he needed. But as the days turned into weeks, the reality of the situation began to weigh heavily on me.

My father had always been a proud man, and losing his independence was hard for him. He became irritable and demanding, often lashing out at me for the smallest things. I tried to be patient, reminding myself that it was the illness talking, not him. But it was exhausting. My work started to suffer, and I found myself constantly on edge.

One night, after a particularly difficult day, I broke down in tears. I felt like a failure. I couldn’t keep up with my job, take care of my father, and maintain my own sanity all at once. I reached out to my siblings for help, but they were either too far away or too busy with their own lives to offer any real assistance.

The breaking point came when my father had a fall in the bathroom. He wasn’t seriously hurt, but it scared me. I realized that I wasn’t equipped to provide the level of care he needed. I spent hours researching nursing homes and care facilities, trying to find a place that would take good care of him.

When I finally made the decision to move him into a care facility, I felt a mix of relief and guilt. I knew it was the right thing to do for both of us, but it didn’t make it any easier. The day we moved him in was one of the hardest days of my life. He looked at me with such disappointment and sadness in his eyes. It broke my heart.

Word quickly spread among our family and friends. The judgment was swift and harsh. “How could you do that to your own father?” they asked. “Isn’t he your responsibility?” The guilt and shame were overwhelming. I started avoiding social gatherings and stopped answering phone calls from people who knew about the situation.

Despite the criticism, I knew deep down that I had made the right decision. My father was getting the professional care he needed, and I was able to regain some semblance of normalcy in my life. But the emotional toll was significant. Every time I visited him, I saw the sadness in his eyes, and it tore me apart.

I wish there had been another way. I wish I could have been stronger, more patient, more capable of handling everything on my own. But I wasn’t. And now, I have to live with the consequences of that decision every day.