“I’m Not a Carer”
“Natasha, I’ve got some difficult news,” Alex set his spoon down on the plate, avoiding her gaze. “Mum’s really struggling now. She’s eighty, you know. She can’t manage on her own anymore. She needs full-time care.”
“I was afraid of this…” Natalie sighed, drying her hands on a tea towel. “Have you spoken to Steven? We’ll probably have to hire a carer. We can’t handle this alone.”
“I’ve talked to him. And we’ve decided—a carer’s too expensive. Plus, we don’t like the idea of a stranger in the house. It’s better if family looks after her.”
“*You’ve* decided?” Natalie frowned. “So you and your brother have already made all the arrangements?”
“Yes. And we think you’re the best choice. Mum knows you, she trusts you. She wouldn’t accept a stranger. Besides, you’re at home—you could quit your job and take care of her.”
Natalie’s heart dropped. She worked as an accountant, with just over three years left until her pension. Quit? Lose her seniority and retirement?
“Alex, I need to think. I’m not made of steel. My health’s not great either. And… you and Steven didn’t even consult me. You just dropped this on me.”
“Natasha, come on—Mum gave us this flat. She’s done everything for us. Now it’s our turn to return the favour. Steven and I will help. You won’t be on your own.”
She knew—they’d help exactly as much as suited them. In reality, the burden would fall on her. But she didn’t argue. She asked for a month’s leave at work—”family care leave.” And she set one clear condition:
“One month. After that, we reassess. I’m not signing up forever.”
“Fine.” Alex nodded. “In the meantime, we’ll move Mum in with us. Easier than running back and forth.”
The next morning, Valerie Archibald, Alex’s mother, appeared at the door of their two-bed flat in Luton. She’d shrunk, moving with effort. They brought in a wheelchair, laid out blankets, arranged medicines, hauled in basins, pillows, throws. The flat filled with the smell of bleach and age.
Alex took charge immediately:
“Prop her up with that cushion. The soup’s gone cold—heat it. And make sure she takes all her pills—you’re responsible now!”
Natalie stayed quiet, doing what was asked. But she wasn’t forty anymore. Her back ached, her blood pressure spiked, her joints throbbed. And her mother-in-law, as if on purpose, began playing petty games—spilling juice, hiding pills, complaining about noise.
A few days later, Steven and his wife, Gillian, turned up unannounced. Still in their coats, they surveyed the flat like a museum exhibit, commenting loudly: “It’s too stuffy in here for Mum,” “There’s a draught.” Natalie stood in the corner, invisible.
“Mum, how are you managing? Natalie treating you alright?” Steven asked.
“Son, who’d want to look after an old woman?” Valerie whimpered. “She acts like I’m a burden. No shepherd’s pie, no kindness. Everything’s done grudgingly…”
Natalie snapped.
“Shepherd’s pie tomorrow. Tonight it’s roast and soup. Does every meal have to be a feast?”
“Natalie,” Gillian cut in, “how can you not cook properly every day? She’s elderly! You should feed her like a child. Or is it too much for you?”
“Gillian, I cook, clean, wash, tidy… Try doing it yourself, then judge. When it’s your turn, do it your way.”
“I’ve got a job! I can’t. And… I wouldn’t know how!” Gillian’s smugness vanished instantly.
They left as abruptly as they’d arrived—without offering help.
And Alex, despite his promises, did less and less:
“Nat, you’re the woman here. Handle it. I’m at work, I’m tired. Besides, this is tradition—wives care for their in-laws. No one’s ever complained.”
Natalie stayed silent. She counted the days until she could return to work.
Three weeks later, Alex came home with “news”:
“Steven and I’ve made a decision. Mum’s leaving the flat to you in her will. You quit your job and care for her full-time. It’s only fair.”
“What?!” Natalie went pale. “You seriously think I’d trade my life for square footage? I don’t want a flat at the cost of my health! I won’t spend years as a carer in exchange for inheritance!”
“Think about James! If we sold the flat, he’d get something too.”
“In ten years? Fifteen? And what about me? Do I just disappear?”
Alex stayed silent. He looked wounded.
“I don’t care about the flat, Alex. I want a life. I want to work, drink coffee in the mornings, read books—not run around with bedpans. You’ve got a brother—let him take responsibility for once. Or hire a carer!”
“Money! It’s always money! Your salary’s peanuts. It makes sense for you to stay home!”
“No! My answer’s final!” Natalie met his eyes. “Do what you want. But I won’t care for Valerie anymore.”
A week later, Natalie packed her things. Quietly, without a fight. She rented a room in a shared house. Her son, James, backed her—he’d help with rent, call, visit.
Alex quickly realised: Mum needed proper care. A carer was hired without delay. Professional, with references.
And Natalie, for the first time in years, felt free. Not guilty. Not obliged. Just a woman. One who’d finally chosen herself.
