28October2025
Im 72 now, and the tale Im about to record took place about fifteen years ago. My husband died many years before, leaving me with a son, his wife Eleanor, and a grandson, Tom. Eleanors father, Harold, was a kindly maths teacher until a serious illness struck him. Though I barely knew him, I ended up looking after him for eight long years, and not a single word of thanks ever reached my ears.
Harold lived in a modest flat in Manchester. When his health collapsed, we poured a great deal of money into his care thousands of pounds on treatments and home adjustments. He soon became confined to his bed, and nobody else seemed able or willing to tend to him. My son was often away on business, Tom was still a university student, and Eleanor worked fulltime as an accountant. She also had an older sister, Poppy, who lived in Liverpool and could only call to express sympathy.
Eleanor was told by her firm, Either you keep working as usual or well have to let you go, so she chose the job and left the responsibility of her father to me. At first she asked that I visit him once a day to cook and feed him. I agreed, thinking it would be a brief commitment. I never imagined I would be bound to his bedside for eight years.
In the beginning I stayed only two hours and then went home. Gradually Eleanor handed me more tasks washing, bathing, managing his medication. Soon I was spending the whole day with him, only leaving at night, and walking back at dawn. My son, seeing how hard it was for me, urged me to quit the charitable work, but he never said anything to Eleanor, even though he lived in her flat.
Poppy called frequently, dictating exactly how I should tend Harold, what I should say, how I should dress his bedside. Whenever I couldnt meet her exacting schedule, Eleanor grew displeased and once snapped, If you cant cope, take your son and go! Ill manage on my own, Ill find a nanny! I endured that tone for the entire eight years.
When Harold finally passed away, none of his daughters offered a single thankyou for the years I had devoted to their father. Poppy even claimed, No one forced you to look after him; you chose to do it yourself. It was a harsh realization: I had given my time and kindness, yet they showed no gratitude.
Looking back, I understand that kindness should not be given in expectation of a reward. The lesson I carry now is that my own sense of worth must come from within, not from the acknowledgment of others.
