My mother is nearly 97 now, so I suppose it doesn't get much more aged than that. She still lives at home although my brother, who's four years younger than me and unmarried/no kids/not in a relationship, lives with her.
He works four days a week, he takes Wednesdays off to break up the week a bit for her. She doesn't walk very well without the little trolley type thing that she uses in the house but she cooks, washes, sews (her tapestry work is wonderful) but lately she's been getting a bit down as she has quite painful arthritis in one of her shoulders and there's not really much that can be done for it.
Get her on a good day though and she can talk the hind leg off a donkey - this is usually when my brother isn't around, as I suppose she's told him all that there is to tell.
Compared to my brother, I suppose I was always seen as the rebellious one, the one who caused my parents the most trouble, the one who always ended up getting a hiding even when it really wasn't my fault.
I think even now my Mum looks at me very differently from how she sees my brother, with my lifetime of playing in rock bands, spending a short time inside, riding muddy noisy motorcycles, racing sled dogs, having a parallel life in Greece and twice being married to women more attractive than I deserve. Like a sort of romantic, Byronesque character then (or not).
Every time that I go away I know she thinks that it may be the last time she'll ever see me but I told her that life is fragile for us all, any one of us could leave the house one morning and never come back or go to bed one night and never wake up (like my brother-in-law did four years ago).
We've had our slight differences over the years (I was probably closer to, and a lot more like, my Dad) and it's only in the last few years that I've finally realised just how much my Mum loves me. Funny that, how it can take sixty years.....