Amen to all of this. At 55, I moved 600 miles away from my mother for many of these reasons. At 65 (now), I have finally stopped feeling guilty (mostly) for taking care of myself by seeing her only once a year. Even now, going there makes me literally nauseous. And I hate the way she talks about me to the people in the luxury old people’s home she lives in, some of whom know me from when I lived in that town. I even had a 15-minute diatribe left on my answering machine by one of them!

One way I deal with this is through poetry. If you’re interested, I have one on Medium called “Final Invitation.” It comes from the comorted space I’ve finally created for myself with the help of an unutterably good husband.

In any case, thanks for this.