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 has three children—my husband, Edward, was the youngest. It always seemed he was the unwanted one. Her adoration was reserved entirely for her two older daughters, Emily and Charlotte. She helped them with everything: home repairs, babysitting, shopping, and even debts. Meanwhile, Edward and I might as well have been invisible.
In eight years of marriage, she never lifted a finger for us—no gifts, calls, or visits. We weren’t invited to family celebrations, her grandchildren’s birthdays, or even her own milestone anniversary. When she spoke to us at all, it was distant and hurried.
When our son was born, I secretly hoped a grandson might soften her. But no. She didn’t even come to see him, just muttered over the phone, “Pity it’s not a girl,” and hung up. Edward was crushed, racking his brain for what he’d done wrong. Eventually, he gave up. We leaned entirely on my parents—they stepped in, babysitting while we worked long shifts, helping with groceries, offering comfort.
To us, she was a stranger. We sent holiday texts, nothing more. That chapter was closed—or so we thought.
Then she fell ill. The doctors gave a grim diagnosis: an illness that steals mobility and demands round-the-clock care. Edward rushed to her side straight from work, returning a changed man—angry, lost, shattered. He’d always been fair and kind, but now he screamed in frustration for the first time.
After discharge, she needed constant supervision. Her daughters held a quick “family meeting” and decided we should take the burden. Charlotte had a newborn, they said; Emily lived in Surrey and found the trip to London inconvenient. Not a word about our jobs, our child, or the lifetime of distance between us.
Their “offer” to let us live in her flat felt like scraps—especially since she’d long signed everything over to them: her cottage to Charlotte, her car to Emily. “For all the care,” they called it. Now, suddenly, they remembered their brother—the one who got leftovers. When Edward refused, they called him heartless, screaming he didn’t deserve their mother’s name.
I’m just tired. I pity her, truly—but she’s a stranger. I won’t care for someone who pretended we didn’t exist. Edward is consumed by duty now—but what duty do you owe someone who spent a lifetime erasing you with silence?
He told them if they believed she deserved care, they could sell her three-bedroom flat and hire a nurse. He’d contribute money, but not his life. Because we have our own—our health, our peace, our right to live it.
Old age is no kindness. But why must those always rejected bear its weight? Where were these “devoted daughters” when she fell ill? Why must I, the outsider, drop everything to tend to her while they watch from afar?
I know many will judge. They’ll say you don’t abandon family. But this story isn’t simple—it’s layered with too much hurt, too much unfairness.
And above all—it’s far too late.
Some wounds never heal. And some choices are made long before you’re asked to pay for them.
