—Natasha, I’ve got some rather bad news…— Alex set his spoon down on the plate, his gaze dropping. —Mum’s in a terrible state. She’s eighty now. She can’t manage on her own anymore. She needs full-time care.
—I was afraid of this…— Natalie sighed, drying her hands on the tea towel. —Have you spoken to Simon? I suppose we’ll have to find a carer. We can’t shoulder it all ourselves.
—I have. And we’ve decided—a carer’s too expensive. And it’s risky letting a stranger into the house. Better if family looks after her.
—*We’ve decided*?— Natalie tensed. —You and your brother have already made plans without me?
—Yes. And we agree—you’re the best choice. Mum knows you, trusts you. A stranger? Never. Besides, you’re at home. You could quit your job and care for her.
Natalie’s chest tightened. She was an accountant, barely three years from retirement. Quit? Lose her pension, her stability?
—Alex, I need time to think. I’m not made of steel. My health’s not perfect either. And—you and Simon didn’t even ask me. Just dropped this on me.
—Nat, come on. You know Mum gave us this house. Did everything for us—now it’s our turn. Simon and I will help. You won’t be on your own.
She knew—they’d help only when convenient. The real burden would fall on her. But she didn’t argue. She took a month’s leave from work—*care for a relative*. And laid down one firm rule:
—One month. Then we revisit this. I’m not signing up indefinitely.
—Fair enough. Meanwhile, we’ll move Mum in—easier that way. No more back-and-forth.
The next morning, Val, Alex’s mother, appeared at their two-bed in Slough. Frail, slow-moving. They brought in a wheelchair, unfolded blankets, lined up pills, hauled in basins, pillows, throws. The flat filled with bleach and must.
Alex took charge immediately:
—Prop her up with that cushion. The soup’s cold—heat it. And make sure she takes her meds—that’s on you now!
Natalie stayed silent, did as told. But she wasn’t forty anymore. Her back ached, her blood pressure spiked, her joints throbbed. And her mother-in-law, as if on purpose, played petty games—spilling juice, hiding pills, whinging about noise.
Days later, Simon and his wife, Gemma, barged in. Still in coats, they toured the flat like inspectors—*Mum can’t breathe in here*, *There’s a draught*. Natalie stood in the corner, unseen.
—Mum, how is it here? Has Nat been decent to you?— Simon asked.
—Love, who’d *want* to care for an old woman?— Val whimpered. —She looks at me like I’m a burden. No shepherd’s pie, no kindness. Just duty…
Natalie snapped.
—Shepherd’s pie tomorrow. Tonight it’s bangers and mash. What’s wrong with that?
—Nat,— Gemma cut in,— how can you not cook fresh every day? She’s elderly! You should feed her like a child. Or is that too much?
—Gem, I cook, clean, wash, scrub—why don’t *you* try it first? When it’s your turn, do it your way.
—I’ve got a job! I can’t. And—I wouldn’t know how!— Gemma’s haughtiness vanished.
They left as they came—offering no help.
And Alex, despite promises, slipped further away:
—Nat, love, you’re the woman here. Handle it. I’m knackered from work. Besides, it’s tradition—daughters-in-law care for mothers-in-law. No one complains.
Natalie stayed quiet. Counted the days until work.
Three weeks in, Alex returned with *news*:
—Simon and I have settled it. Mum’ll will the house to you. You quit, care for her full-time. Fair deal.
—*What*?— Natalie went pale. —You seriously think I’ll trade my life for bricks and mortar? I won’t wreck my health for a house! I won’t waste years on care just for inheritance!
—Think of our son! We could sell, split the money—Harry’d get a share!
—In ten years? Fifteen? And me? I just disappear?
Alex stayed silent. His face—wounded.
—I don’t *care* about the house, Al. I want to *live*. Work. Drink coffee. Read books. Not run around with bedpans. You’ve got a brother—let *him* step up for once. Or hire a carer!
—Always money! Your salary’s peanuts! It’s cheaper this way!
—*No*! My answer’s final!— Natalie met his eyes. —Do what you want. But I won’t care for Val anymore.
A week later, Natalie packed her things. Quietly, no scene. Rented a bedsit. Her son, Harry, stood by her—promised money, visits, calls.
Alex learned fast—Mum needed care. A carer was hired. Professional, certified.
And Natalie, for the first time in years, felt free. Not guilty. Not obliged. Just a woman. Who’d finally chosen herself.
