My mother-in-law worshipped her daughters all her life. And now, in her old age, it’s left to me to care for her.
My mother-in-law had three children. My husband, Edward, was the youngest. And it seemed he was always the afterthought. All her adoration went to the two older daughters—Margaret and Agnes. She helped them with everything: home repairs, raising their children, shopping, debts. But Edward and I might as well have been invisible.
In eight years of marriage, we never received a speck of help from her. No gifts, no calls, no visits. We weren’t invited to family holidays, the grandchildren’s birthdays, or even her own milestone celebrations. When she spoke to us, it was rare and frosty—if she bothered at all.
When our son was born, I secretly hoped a grandson might thaw her heart. But no. She didn’t even come to see him. All she said over the phone was, “Pity it wasn’t a girl,” and that was that. Edward was crushed, desperate to understand what he’d done wrong. Eventually, he gave up. We leaned on my parents instead. They were the ones who supported us, looked after our boy while we worked double shifts, helped with groceries, with comfort, with anything we needed.
My mother-in-law had become a stranger long ago. We sent polite holiday texts—nothing more. That chapter of our lives seemed firmly closed.
Then everything changed when she fell ill. The doctors delivered a grim diagnosis: a disease that steals mobility and demands constant care. The moment Edward heard, he rushed to her side, no matter the past. He returned a different man—angry, lost, broken inside. He had always been gentle and fair, but now, for the first time, he erupted in fury.
After her discharge, she needed round-the-clock attention. Her daughters held a quick “family meeting” and decided it was our duty to take her in. One had an infant, they said; the other had a home in the Cotswolds, making trips to London inconvenient. Not a word about our jobs, our child, or the fact we’d never been treated as family.
Their offer to “let us have” her flat felt like a cruel joke—especially since she’d long since signed everything over to them. The cottage in the countryside went to Margaret. The car to Agnes. Payment for their “care,” as they called it. Only now did they remember their brother, the one always left with scraps. When Edward refused, they called him heartless, screamed that he didn’t deserve their mother’s name.
I’m just tired. I do pity her, truly. But she’s a stranger. I can’t bring myself to care for someone who spent years pretending we didn’t exist. My husband isn’t himself anymore—guilt gnaws at him. But what debt do you owe someone who spent a lifetime silencing you?
He said if his sisters believed she deserved care, they could sell her three-bedroom flat and hire a professional nurse. He’d 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 should its burden fall on those who were always cast aside? Where were these “devoted daughters” when she first fell ill? Why must I, an outsider, drop everything to become her caretaker while they watch from a distance?
I know many will judge. They’ll say you don’t abandon the elderly, that family is family. But this story is too tangled. Too much pain, too much injustice.
And above all—too late.
