My mother-in-law worshipped her daughters all her life. Yet now, in her old age, it falls to me to care for her.
She had three children—my husband, Edward, was the youngest. It seemed he was always an afterthought to her. All her adoration went to her two elder daughters, Philippa and Beatrice. She helped them with everything: home repairs, childcare, shopping, debts. But Edward and I might as well have been invisible.
In eight years of marriage, we never received so much as a scrap of help from her—no gifts, no phone calls, no visits. We weren’t invited to family gatherings, grandchildren’s birthdays, or even her own milestone celebrations. When she spoke to us at all, it was curt, as if we scarcely deserved her time.
When our son was born, I secretly hoped that perhaps a grandson might melt the ice between us. Yet she didn’t even come to see him. Her only words over the phone were, *”Pity it wasn’t a girl,”* before she hung up. Edward was devastated, racking his brain for what he could have done wrong. Eventually, he gave up. We leaned entirely on my parents—they were the ones who supported us, who minded our boy when we worked double shifts, who helped with groceries, with comfort, with every little thing.
For years, my mother-in-law was no more than a stranger to us. We sent the occasional holiday text—our sole communication. That chapter of our life seemed long closed.
Then everything changed when she fell ill. The doctors gave a grim diagnosis: a disease that steals mobility and demands constant care. The moment Edward heard, he rushed from work to her side, no matter the past. He returned a different man—angry, lost, broken inside. He had always been kind, fair, but now, for the first time in his life, he shouted in frustration.
Once discharged, she needed round-the-clock care. Her daughters wasted no time holding a *”family meeting”*—where they decided that Edward and I were the ones to take it on. One had a newborn, they said, the other lived in Surrey and found the journey to London inconvenient. Not a word about our own jobs, our child, or the fact we had never been close to her.
Their *”offer”* to let us stay in her flat was a bitter joke—especially since she’d long transferred all her assets to them. A cottage in the countryside went to Philippa, the car to Beatrice. *”Payment for their care,”* as they put it. Only now did they remember the brother they’d left with scraps all his life. When Edward refused, they called him heartless, shouted that he was no true son.
And I? I’m just tired. I pity her—I do. But she’s a stranger. I won’t devote my days to a woman who pretended we didn’t exist. My husband is tormented by duty—but what duty is owed to someone who spent a lifetime erasing him with silence?
He told them if they truly cared for their mother, they could sell her three-bedroom flat and hire a nurse. He would contribute money—but not his life. Because we have our own lives. Our own health. Our right to peace.
I know old age is no blessing. But why must its burden fall on those forever pushed aside? Where were these *”darling daughters”* when their mother first fell ill? Why must I—an outsider—drop everything to become her nurse while they stand aside?
Some will say we’re wrong—that family must be cared for, no matter the past. But this story isn’t so simple. There’s too much pain, too much unfairness.
And above all—it’s far too late.
