13October2025
London
Ive spent eight long years looking after a man who was, in truth, a stranger to me and never once was I thanked for it.
Anyone who has tended to a sick relative knows how draining it can be. Even caring for someone youre close to can feel like an endless marathon, yet I was tasked with looking after my daughterinlaws father for eight years. He was, essentially, a complete unknown. The lack of gratitude has left a deep wound.
Im 72 now, and the story Im about to recount happened almost fifteen years ago.
My husband passed away many years ago. I have a son, a daughterinlaw named Poppy, and a grandson called Oliver. Poppys father, a kindly mathematics teacher from a small town near Sheffield, fell gravely ill.
We funded his treatment as best we could, draining our savings and borrowing wherever we could. I contributed what money I had left.
When his condition worsened he became confined to his bed, and no one else seemed able or willing to look after him. My son was swamped with work and frequent business trips, Oliver was still at university, and Poppy worked fulltime as a nurse. Her older sister, Mabel, lived in Bristol and could only call to offer sympathy.
Poppy was told she could not take sick leave: Either you keep working, or youre out of a job. Of course she chose work, and the burden of caring for her father fell squarely on me.
At first she asked me to visit once a day to cook and feed him. I agreed, not realising it would become a fulltime commitment. I thought Id stay for a couple of hours and then go home. But as weeks turned into months, Poppy kept adding tasks. Soon I was spending the entire day at his bedside, only leaving when darkness fell, and walking back in the early morning.
My son felt sorry for me; he saw how hard it was and urged me to stop the unpaid caregiving. He kept his complaints to himself, though, because he was still living under Poppys roof.
It wore me down when Mabel would call and dictate exactly how I should tend to her father what to feed him, how to lift him, when to change his sheets. Poppy grew increasingly irritable whenever I couldnt meet her exacting timetable. She even told me, If you cant handle it, take your son and go! Ill manage on my own, Ill find a babysitter!
For eight years I swallowed that tirade, kept my composure, and kept him comfortable until the very end. When he finally passed, none of his daughters offered a word of thanks for the years I had devoted to him. The eldest even claimed Id chosen to care for him of my own accord, not because anyone forced me.
Its a bitter truth: I did something caring for people, yet their ingratitude was so complete that not a single thankyou ever reached my ears.
