Words by Sunny Hewlett // Photo by Malin K.
I haven’t said it out loud. Not to my parents, not to anyone. But sometimes, when I’m doing nothing in particular (scrolling, making tea, pretending to fold laundry) I feel it: the quiet, low-level panic that someday they won’t be here. And yet, they are here right now. Active, healthy, stubbornly independent, like they’re daring me to admit I’m overthinking everything.
I’m an only child, which means the future caring falls squarely on me. Medical appointments, insurance forms, big decisions I’m too scared to even think about. Sometimes, just sometimes, I feel… a little burdened. And then, oh so guilty for feeling burdened.
Last month, I found myself helping my mum untangle a mountain of Christmas lights in July (because, of course, that’s when she decided to reorganise the house). I crouched on the garage floor, waging a losing battle against the knots, while she hummed, blissfully unaware of the chaos. And somewhere between a looped strand and a popped bulb, it hit me: one day, I’ll be the one sorting through their belongings, making decisions about their stuff after they’re gone. And I’ll be completely alone. Unlike families with multiple kids, there won’t be anyone else to share the load, no one to argue over which photos to keep or who gets the weird ceramic owl collection.
And here’s the thing: no one talks about this. You can’t exactly practice these feelings out loud while your parents are bustling around the house, making jokes, misplacing keys, living life like nothing is wrong. And having no siblings, there’s no one to vent to about my feelings. So I tuck the worry into a drawer somewhere and carry on, smiling, laughing, pretending that the future is far enough away that it can’t touch me yet.
Being an only child has its perks: I get all their love, all their attention, all their stories. But it also comes with this invisible pressure: someday, all of the logistical and emotional work of “parent care” will land solely on me.
I try to convince myself that I’m just being practical. I mean, it’s true, I’ve started making mental lists of doctors, insurance policies, potential home modifications. I even think about what I’ll do if they need someone overnight. It sounds responsible, almost heroic. But in reality, it’s exhausting.
I try to focus on being in the moment because right now, everything is fine. Everyone is safe. But time is cruel and just keeps marching on and one day, it’ll just be me.
I let myself feel the fear, the worry and the the guilt in small doses, reminding myself it’s okay to feel burdened while also loving them fiercely. And sometimes, late at night, I whisper it into the dark: “I love you. And I’m scared.” Not to them. To the quiet house, to the ceiling, to myself. Because that’s the safest place for this kind of truth.
Maybe that’s the trick: acknowledging the burden quietly, without shame, while also soaking up every small, ridiculous, beautiful piece of the present.
