My Brother Refuses to Let Mum Move into a Care Home or Take Her In Himself—He Says There’s Simply No Room!

Author Emily TaylorReading 5 minViews 3

My brother refuses to put Mum in a care home and wont take her in himselfhe says there simply isnt enough room.

Its been three months now, and my brother and I have argued endlessly about what to do with Mum. Ever since her stroke, she hasnt been at all herself. Shes forgetful and needs someone with her at all times. She requires continuous care, and all the responsibility seems to have landed squarely on my shoulders. At times, it feels as though Im caring for a child. I have my own work, house, and familyhow am I supposed to be in two places at once? I suggested she go to a care home, but my brother flew into a rage, accusing me of cruelty. Yet, he wont take her in, either. He lives with his wife in her flat.

We used to be a close-knit family, just the four of us. My brother and Ijust a year apart. Our parents had us later in life. Im 36 now, and my brother is just behind at 35. My mother is already 72. All was well until Dad passed away.

After Dads death, my brother left for university in another city and remained there, eventually marrying. As for me, I settled in our hometown. Initially, I continued living with Mum and Dad, but after I married, my husband and I preferred renting our own place. The plan was always to eventually buy a house and start a family.

It was only two years ago that my father died. Mum became despondent and lonely, pining for him. She seemed to age overnight. She was ill, and then, six months ago, suffered a stroke. For a time, we feared she wouldnt survive. She struggled to speak, could hardly move, and even after the worst had passed, her mind didnt recover.

The doctors told us the after-effects were permanent. So, I became her carer. My husband and I moved back into Mums home, and I changed jobs, taking up freelance work so I could be with her during the day. She couldnt be left alone. When she regained her mobility, things didnt get much easier.

She rambled, got confused, and we had to chase after her when she wandered off, pleading that she needed to find Dad. I barely slept, always worried shed disappear. My work sufferedI simply couldnt focus. My husband suggested a care home.

Its dreadfully expensive, but if we budget carefully, theres just enough to cover a decent place. My husband said, Youve got a brotherhe should contribute, too. Its only fair.

For a long while, I couldnt bring myself to make the decision, but eventually, I understood there was no other way. How long could this go on? At a care home, shed have round-the-clock attention and medical support. I visited one and gathered all the detailsit wasnt cheap, but what choice did I have?

I called my brother and told him everythingthe reality of the situation. I hoped hed see sense and understand. Instead, he was furious.

Have you lost your mind? How could you send our own mother away to a place like that? Shed be surrounded by strangers! How can you possibly know shell be treated well? Youre heartless! he shouted down the phone. Or maybe you just want her out of your house?

I tried to explain myself, but he wouldnt listen. And so, I continued looking after Mum. But soon, it became clearI was at my limit. Again, I tried to talk to him, but his position hadnt budged.

I could never do that to our Mum. She raised us, educated usyou and me, together, in our home. She never complained about how hard it was.

We both owe her, but why should it fall entirely to me? If my brother dislikes my plan, hes welcome to come and take Mum in and show her his kindness.

You know I live with my wife at her flat, he protested. How am I supposed to convince her to take in her mother-in-law?

So my husband can look after his mother-in-law, but your wife cant? I retorted. You and your wife could move in with Mum. He hesitated, saying he was busy with work and couldnt be distracted. Apparently, I was only saying all this because I wanted to shirk my duties.

It felt like living in a nightmare. Part of me knew the only solution was to arrange for Mum to go into a care homefor all our sakes. But I also feared being branded an ungrateful daughter. My husband was supportive, telling me that the staff would care for her and that we also have our own lives to live.

I gave myself another week. If my brother didnt step up, I would have to make the choice myself. It would be best for all of us. I would put her in a care homebecause everyone has their advice, but only I truly know how difficult it is to care for the ill. If my brother wants, he can concoct whatever excuses he needs for his circle. Ive had enough.

Who Slept in My Bed and Creased the Sheets… A Story My Husband’s Mistress Was Just Older Than Our Daughter—Chubby Cheeks, Innocent Eyes, Nose Piercing (He Forbade Our Daughter Ever Getting One)—Standing There Bare-Legged in a Cropped Jacket, and I Wanted to Snap: “If You’re Planning on Having Children With That Idiot, Buy a Coat and Wear Tights Under Your Jeans.” Of Course, I Said Nothing. I Just Handed Over the Keys, Grabbed My Bags of Leftover Belongings, and Headed for the Bus Stop. “Mum, Who’s Slept in My Bed and Creased My Sheets?”—When My Daughter Came Home Early, She Found the Young Nymph Drinking Cocoa From Her Favourite Mug, Wearing Her Slippers, While Her Dad Was in the Shower. It Was Just Like a Fairytale, But With Extra Betrayal. Unlike My Daughter, I Took It Calmly—Of Course, My Ego Was Bruised Seeing Such Youthful Beauty, But Mainly I Felt Relief After Years of Late-Night Calls and Coffee Shop Receipts From Places He Never Took Me. Even So, He Lied Shamelessly: “It’s Just the First Time—A Comet Fell From the Sky,” Yet That ‘Comet’ Turned Out to Be a Twenty-Year-Old Hotel Worker Who Chased Him All the Way to London. Sergei’s Flat Was His Before We Married, and Once I Filed for Divorce, My Daughter and I Had to Move Across Town to My Gran’s Old Place—She Hated The Daily School Commute, but Eventually We Settled in, New Jobs and Exams Keeping Us Busy and Distracted from Sadness. Sergei’s Mistress, Arianna, Phoned for Baking Advice and Turned Up Once With Forgotten Photos. She Marvelled at Our Faded Wallpaper—Not “Chic,” but It Was Home. Then, About a Year Later, Arianna Appeared at Our Door in Tears, Mascara Streaming: She’d Just Stumbled on Sergei With His Secretary Instead. Clutching Her Sports Bag, She Asked to Spend the Night and Borrow Train Fare Home. My Daughter Was Furious—It Was Her or Arianna. I Kept the Peace, Brewed Tea for the Distraught Mistress, and Eventually Put Her on a Train, Having Lent Her Money and Listened to Her Promise Never to Fall for Married Men Again. Sergei Called Later, Swearing He’d Changed and Wanted Us Back—“Running Out of Clean Laundry?” I Asked. I Didn’t Take Him Back, but I Didn’t Gloat Either—Instead, I Discovered a New Joyfulness, Adopted a Dog, Took Evening Walks, and Began to Smile More. I Even Befriended the Handsome Neighbour, Ten Years Older. Life, At Last, Moved On.

The Waiter Offered to Take Away the Kitten, But the Six-Foot-Two Gentle Giant Scooped Up the Fluffy, Crying Baby and Sat Him on the Next Chair: “A Plate for My Feline Friend! And Only Your Finest Steak!” — Let’s wear something daring, nearly as bold as the young nymphs, and head to the poshest restaurant in town. Time to flaunt ourselves and size up the gents… So declared one of the three friends—a headmistress of a prestigious and pricey private school, always armed with clever words as her profession demanded. These “nymphs” were all thirty-five—the perfect age, they believed, for miniskirts and blouses that highlighted their charms more than they concealed them. Deep necklines, flawless makeup—ready for battle. The venue was chosen accordingly: only London’s most exclusive, status-defining, and extremely expensive restaurant would do. Booking was easy, and soon they were catching admiring glances from the men and sneers from the men’s companions. Conversation, as always, revolved around the chief subject—men. Dreams, hopes, requirements. Each was waiting for her ideal—tall, fit, handsome, and, of course, rich. A man to sweep her off her feet, fulfill every whim, never chatter needlessly, nor burden her with chores. Nobility a bonus. — But absolutely not like those lot… The friends exchanged glances, nodding towards a trio of cheerful, slightly portly men with receding hairlines at a nearby table. Beer, crisps, and mountains of steak, football and fishing stories. Their laughter was loud, genuine, completely uninhibited. — Disgraceful. — So tasteless. — Ugh. Their verdict unanimous: scruffy, coarse, without a whiff of nobility—utterly wrong for such sophisticated ladies. And then, in a blink, everything changed. In came The Man—arriving in a scarlet Ferrari, the latest model. — Lord Coburg Saxon! — announced the waiter with great pomp at the entrance. The friends straightened like hounds catching a scent. Tall, sculpted, salt-and-pepper hair, a perfectly tailored suit that cost a fortune, diamond cufflinks, dazzlingly white shirt—the full package. — Oh my… — This is it… — Mmm… Necklines dipped even lower, eyes turned openly seductive. — Now that’s a real man, — one whispered. — A Lord, a stunner, and a millionaire, — crooned the second. — I’ve dreamed of the Bahamas since I was a child. The third said nothing, but her gaze spoke volumes. Within ten minutes, the ladies were invited to the lordly table. They walked tall, faces set in subtle disdain for the rest—including the three beer lovers. Lord Coburg was charming, sparkling in conversation, regaling tales of ancient lineage, ancestral estates, and rare art collections. Tension brewed—the invitation for the rest of the evening would go to just one. For now, gourmet distractions: lobsters, trays of seafood, aged wine. The ladies feasted, casting smouldering glances at the lord, their daydreams already far from the dinner table. Cheeks flushed—their beauty at its peak. Lord Coburg dazzled—joking, sharing high society stories. It mattered little where he might invite them next. At the restaurant, a small garden gave off tempting aromas even outside. Soon, a tiny, grey kitten emerged—skinny, hungry—and scooted under tables to sit at Lord Coburg’s feet, pleading for mercy. In vain. Lord Coburg’s face twisted in disgust. Without hesitation, he kicked the kitten away. The tiny creature flew across the floor and smacked into the table leg of our trio. A hush fell over the restaurant. — I despise filthy, mongrel creatures, — he declared loudly. — In my estate, we have pedigreed hounds and champion horses. The waiter rushed to soothe the situation: — Right away, sir, apologies… He aimed for the “beer” table, but one of the men was already on his feet. Huge, nearly six-foot-two, face flushed, fists clenched. Friends tried to hold him back. He silently picked up the kitten and sat him on a chair. — A plate for my furry friend! — he thundered. — Only the very best steak. Now. The waiter turned pale and dashed to the kitchen. Applause erupted across the restaurant. One of the “nymphs” silently rose, approached the gentle giant and declared: — Move over. And order a lady a whisky. Lord Coburg was struck dumb. A minute later, the other two friends joined, sparing Lord Coburg a scornful look. When the evening ended, not everyone left together. One new group—man, woman, and a grey kitten. Time passed. Today the first friend is married to the gentle giant—owner of a leading investment firm. The other two wed his mates, both famous lawyers. All three weddings happened on the same day. Now, the ex-“nymphs” lead a very different life: nappies, cooking, cleaning. Almost simultaneously, each welcomed a daughter. And, to sneak out for beloved dinners, they send their husbands off to football or fishing, call the babysitter and reunite to talk about life—the female kind and, of course, men. And Lord Coburg Saxon? A year later, he was arrested. Big scandal—serial conman preying on gullible women. As for real men? They’re the ones with bellies and thinning hair, no glitz or glory, but hearts of true nobility. That’s just the way it is. There’s no other way.