“I’m not a carer,” Natasha muttered under her breath.
“Natasha, love, I’ve got some not-so-great news,” Alex put his fork down, avoiding her eyes. “Mum’s taken a bad turn. She’s eighty now, and she 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? Guess we’ll have to hire a carer. We can’t handle this alone.”
“We did talk. And we agreed—carers cost a fortune. Plus, letting a stranger into the house? Feels dodgy. Better if family looks after her.”
“*We* agreed?” Natasha frowned. “So you and Simon decided without me?”
“Yeah. And we reckon you’re the best fit. Mum knows you, trusts you. A stranger? No chance. And honestly, you’re home most of the time—you could quit and care for her properly.”
Natasha’s chest tightened. She’d been an accountant for years, with just over three left till 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 didn’t even *ask* me. Just dropped it on me.”
“Come on, Nat. 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 *help* would mean whatever was convenient. In reality? It’d all land on her. But she didn’t argue. Took a month’s leave from work—”family care.” And set one rule:
“One month. Then we revisit. I’m not signing up forever.”
“Deal. For now, we’ll move Mum here—easier than running back and forth.”
The next morning, Valerie, Alex’s mum, appeared at their two-bed in Watford. Frail, shuffling. They brought in a walker, laid out blankets, lined up pills, stacked basins and cushions. The flat smelled of bleach and mothballs.
Alex started ordering her about instantly:
“Prop her up with that cushion. Soup’s gone cold—heat it. And make sure she takes *all* her meds—that’s on you now!”
Natasha stayed quiet, did it all. But she wasn’t forty anymore. Her back ached, her joints throbbed, her blood pressure spiked. And her mother-in-law? Seemed to *enjoy* making things harder—spilling tea, hiding tablets, whinging about noise.
A few days later, Simon and his wife, Gemma, barged in. Still in their coats, they toured the flat like inspectors. “Mum can’t breathe in here,” “Draft’s awful.” Natasha hovered in the corner, invisible.
“Mum, how’re you holding up? Natasha treating you alright?” Simon asked.
“Son, who’d *want* to fuss over an old woman?” Valerie sniffled. “She looks at me like I’m a burden. No proper meals, no warmth. Just going through the motions…”
Natasha snapped.
“She’ll have shepherd’s pie tomorrow. Tonight it’s soup and chops. Does she need a feast every night?”
“Natasha,” Gemma cut in, “how can you *not* cook fresh daily? She’s elderly! Feed her like a child. Or is that too much?”
“Gemma, I cook, clean, wash, scrub. *You* try it—then talk. When it’s *your* turn, do it your way.”
“I’ve got *work*! I can’t. And—I wouldn’t know how!” Gemma’s smugness vanished.
They left as they came—no offer to help.
And Alex? Despite his promises, he dodged more each day:
“Nat, love, you’re the woman. You’ve got this. I’m shattered from work. Besides, it’s tradition—wives care for mothers-in-law. Always has been.”
Natasha stayed silent. Counted the days till work.
Three weeks in, Alex came home with “*news*”:
“Simon and I sorted it. Mum’ll leave you the flat in her will. You quit, care for her full-time. Fair’s fair.”
“*What*?” Natasha went pale. “You think I’d trade my *life* for a few square metres? I don’t want a flat at the cost of my health! Years of slog for an inheritance?!”
“Think of James! We could sell the flat, split it—he’d get something.”
“Maybe in *ten* years. Or *fifteen*. And me? Just wipe myself out?”
Alex stayed quiet, face like a kicked puppy.
“I don’t *care* about the flat, Alex. I want to *live*. Go back to work, drink coffee, read books—not lug basins about. You’ve got a *brother*—let him step up for once. Or *hire* someone!”
“Money! Always money! Your wage’s peanuts—it makes *sense* this way!”
“*No.* Final answer.” She held his stare. “Do what you want. But I’m done caring for Valerie.”
A week later, Natasha packed up. Quietly, no scene. Rented a room in a shared house. James, her son, backed her—promised cash, calls, visits.
Alex? Quickly learned carers *cost*. Found one fast. Qualified, checked.
And Natasha? For the first time in years, she felt *light*. Not guilty. Not trapped. Just a woman. Who’d finally put *herself* first.
