“I’m Not a Carer”
“Natasha, I’ve got some rather grim news,” Alex said, putting his fork down and avoiding eye contact. “Mum’s in a right state. She’s eighty now, you know. Just can’t manage on her own anymore. Needs round-the-clock care.”
“I was afraid of this…” Natasha sighed, drying her hands on a tea towel. “Have you spoken to Simon? Suppose we’ll have to hire a carer. We can’t manage it all ourselves.”
“Spoke to him. We agreed: carers cost a fortune. And letting a stranger into the house? Bit dodgy. Better if family looks after her.”
“‘We agreed’?” Natasha tensed. “You and your brother have already decided, then?”
“Yes. And we reckon you’re the best choice. Mum knows you, she’ll accept you. A stranger? No chance. Besides, you’re at home—could quit your job and take care of her.”
Natasha’s heart sank. She worked as an accountant, just three years from her pension. Give that up? Lose her contributions?
“Alex, I need to think. I’m not made of steel. My health’s not brilliant either. And… you and Simon didn’t even ask me. Just dropped it on me.”
“Nat, come on—you know Mum gave us this flat. Did everything for us. Now it’s our turn to step up. Simon and I will help; you won’t be on your own.”
She knew exactly how much “help” that would be—only when convenient. In reality, it’d all land on her. But she didn’t argue. Took a month’s leave from work—”family care emergency”—and laid down one rule:
“One month. Then we revisit this. I’m not signing up forever.”
“Deal. Meanwhile, we’ll move Mum in—easier than running back and forth.”
The next morning, Eleanor, Alex’s mother, appeared at the door of their two-bed in Watford. Shrunken, shuffling. They brought a wheelchair, laid out blankets, stacked pills, hauled in basins and cushions. The flat reeked of bleach and mothballs.
Alex immediately took charge:
“Prop her up with that pillow. Soup’s gone cold—heat it. And make sure she takes her pills—that’s your job now!”
Natasha stayed quiet, did it all. But she wasn’t forty anymore. Her back ached, her blood pressure yo-yoed, her knees creaked. And Eleanor, almost spitefully, started little rebellions: spilling tea, hiding pills, whinging about noise.
Days later, Simon and his wife, Gemma, swooped in like inspectors. Still in coats, they toured the flat, critiquing: “Mum can’t breathe in here,” “Draft’s dreadful.” Natasha hovered like a ghost.
“Mum, how are you? Nat treating you alright?” Simon asked.
“Son, who’d want to look after an old bag like me?” Eleanor whimpered. “She acts like I’m a burden. No shepherd’s pie, no kindness. Just gritted teeth…”
Natasha snapped.
“Shepherd’s pie tomorrow. Tonight’s bangers and mash. Why cook a feast every day?”
“Natasha,” Gemma cut in, “how can you not cook properly? She’s elderly! You should feed her like a child. Or is that too much?”
“Gemma, I cook, clean, wash, scrub… You try it, then judge. When it’s your turn, do as you please.”
“I’ve got a job! I can’t. And… I wouldn’t know how!” Gemma’s smugness vanished.
They left as they came—offering no help.
Alex, despite promises, ducked responsibility:
“Nat, love, you’re the woman. You cope. I’m shattered from work. Besides, it’s tradition—daughters-in-law care for mums. Always been that way.”
Natasha stayed silent. Counted days till work.
Three weeks in, Alex returned with “news”:
“Simon and I sorted it. Mum’ll will you the flat. You quit and care for her full-time. Fair’s fair.”
“WHAT?” Natasha went pale. “You think I’d trade my life for square footage? I won’t wreck my health for bricks! Won’t sacrifice years for inheritance!”
“Think of Liam! We could sell, split it—he’d get something.”
“In ten years. Or fifteen. And me? Just erase myself?”
Alex sulked silently.
“I couldn’t care less about the flat, Alex. I want to live. Want my job, morning coffee, books—not jugging bedpans. You’ve got a brother—let him step up for once. Or hire a carer!”
“Money! Always money! Your wages are peanuts. Financially, this makes sense!”
“No! Final answer!” Natasha met his eyes. “Sort it yourselves. I’m done caring for Eleanor.”
A week later, Natasha packed quietly, no drama. Rented a room in a shared house. Liam backed her—promised cash, calls, visits.
Alex soon grasped: Mum needed care. Found a carer quick—qualified, references in order.
And Natasha, for the first time in years, felt free. Not guilty. Not obligated. Just a woman. Who’d finally chosen herself.
