I grew up a little differently from most people I know. Until I was seventeen, I lived with my grandparents, my mum’s parents.
But before I go any further, it helps to give you some context. My mother was an only child. Her parents came to France from Eastern Europe at the beginning of the last century. They settled first in Paris, then escaped further south toward Lyon when World War II began. My mother was seven when the war started. She hid for five years in farms and forests to avoid deportation, living with a constant sense of fear and resilience that later shaped the way she raised me — and perhaps the way I now raise my own daughter.
By the time the 1970s came around, I was born and my parents were busy running a business and traveling constantly. Who else could look after me with such love and devotion that my parents never had to worry? My grandparents, of course. We all lived together in the countryside, in a big house in the middle of nowhere.
You’ve probably gathered by now that I’m an only child. Like my mum. And like my daughter. My only companions for years were a dog, a horse, some chickens, two sheep, and a duck! There were no other children, just me and my elderly grandparents, whom I absolutely adored.
When I turned eight, my parents decided that the tiny village school wasn’t quite what they’d imagined for my education, so we moved to the city. But even there, I remained with my grandparents. Their home was always open: a warm, welcoming place where my school friends loved coming. I had a very happy childhood, even if my parents were often abroad or working long hours.
My teenage years were spent surrounded by friends, most of whom I still see today. When I was sixteen, my parents finally slowed down the travel and we all moved in together. A year later, my beloved grandfather passed away. Losing him broke something inside me that took years to heal. My grandmother came to live with us soon after, extending that sense of family we always had.
In my twenties I studied communications and marketing, married too young, and divorced just as quickly, typical growing pains! Soon after, London became my home after a planned one-year work experience turned into a lifetime. Twenty-six years later, I’m still here, through countless grey skies and many bright moments but with my own family.
Then came the hardest chapter. About ten years ago, my mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.
At first, I dismissed the signs as I wasn’t living near her: a forgotten name, misplaced keys. She’s aging, I told myself. But those little incidents soon added up to something deeper: a fading of her spark, her edge, her quick wit, that wonderful quirkiness that made her who she was.
For a long time, my father couldn’t bring himself to face what was happening. When we finally got the diagnosis, our world shifted. Slowly, my mum began to lose her memory: first the day-to-day details, then friends and family. But not me. She remembers me. For now. Maybe love is stronger than Alzheimer’s?
These days, when I visit her, she barely speaks. Her words come out slowly, she pauses, loses the track of her thoughts. She looks at me with soft, searching eyes, and I wonder what she still recognises. I love seeing her and being with her, I really do. Sitting beside her, holding her hand. I usually show her pictures of people she was friends with or family and she points at them without a word… Even as she’s here, physically, I feel she’s been gone for years. It’s a strange kind of feeling, like grief… mourning someone who still exists.
The reality of being an only child caring for aging parents
Life with elderly parents is difficult enough. But being an only child makes it infinitely harder. There’s no sibling to share the worry, the phone calls, the endless decisions. The emotional load is yours alone, and at times it feels very heavy and unbearable.
Living far away adds another layer. I jump on a plane as easily as most people hop on a bus, my carbon footprint must be the size of a small country (I’m not proud!). My weeks are divided between work at work, work at home, and a constant balancing act of caring from far away. Every visit is a mixture of guilt and gratitude: guilt for not being there all the time, gratitude for still having time with them and them with me. Making sure that doctors are seen, tests are done, people give them the right care…
The loneliness of being “the only one” stretches into adulthood, not just childhood. When caring for elderly parents, you become both caregiver and witness. You watch time fold on itself, reliving your own upbringing while guiding them gently through theirs. You’re the child, and then the situation reverses. You become the parent. Sometimes both at the same moment.
And yet, there’s a very quiet strength in it, too. Being an only child has taught me independence, resilience, and an absolute fierce loyalty to the people I love. It showed me that family doesn’t always mean numbers, it’s about sheer connection. It’s about showing up, even when your heart hurts and you know what the outcome is…
Caring for older parents as an only child is shit (sorry). It’s messy, exhausting, and deeply unsettling at times. But it’s also a privilege to love them enough to keep trying and fighting for them, even when memory fades and the roles reverse.
