**Diary Entry – 23rd April, 2024**
My mother-in-law spent her whole life doting on her daughters. Now, in her old age, it’s fallen to me to care for her.
She had three children. My husband, Edward, was the youngest. And it always seemed he was the afterthought. All her love went to the two elder daughters—Emily and Charlotte. She helped them with everything: home repairs, childcare, groceries, even debts. But Edward and I might as well have been invisible.
In eight years of marriage, we never received a scrap of help from her—no gifts, no calls, no visits. We weren’t invited to family gatherings, not even the grandchildren’s birthdays or her own milestone celebrations. She spoke to us coldly, if at all.
When our son was born, I secretly hoped her heart might soften. It didn’t. She didn’t even come to see him. Just muttered down the phone, *”Pity it’s not a girl,”* and that was that. Edward was crushed, wondering what he’d done wrong. Eventually, he gave up. We leaned on my parents instead—they were the ones who babysat, helped with bills, offered comfort.
She’d become a stranger. We sent obligatory holiday texts, nothing more. That chapter felt closed.
Then she fell ill. The doctors said it was severe—an illness that would leave her bedridden. Edward rushed to the hospital straight from work. He came back changed: angry, hollow, broken. Always the gentlest man, he shouted for the first time in his life.
After discharge, she needed round-the-clock care. Her daughters held a quick “family meeting” and decided it was our duty to take her in. One had a newborn, they said; the other lived too far out in Surrey to commute to London. Not a word about our jobs, our son, or the fact we’d never been part of their lives.
The offer to “let us have” her flat felt like scraps—especially since she’d already signed everything over to them years ago. The cottage in Kent went to Emily. The car to Charlotte. “Rewards for their care,” they called it. Now, suddenly, they remembered their brother—the one who got the leftovers. When Edward refused, they called him heartless, said he didn’t deserve their mother’s name.
I’m just tired. I pity her, truly. But she’s a stranger. I can’t care for someone who spent decades pretending we didn’t exist. Edward’s torn apart by guilt—but what debt does he owe someone who never loved him?
He told them if they wanted her looked after, they could sell her three-bed flat and hire a nurse. He’d contribute money, not his life. Because we have our own lives. Our health. Our right to peace.
Old age is cruel—but why must those who were always pushed aside bear the weight? Where were her “precious girls” when she fell ill? Why must I—the outsider—drop everything to tend to her now?
I know what people will say: *”You can’t abandon family.”* But this isn’t simple. There’s too much pain, too many years of unfairness.
And worst of all—it’s far too late for apologies.
**Lesson learned:** Blood doesn’t make a family—love does. And when love’s withheld, obligation has no roots.
