**Diary Entry**
My mother-in-law worshipped her daughters her whole life. Yet now, in her old age, it falls to me to care for her.
She has three children—my husband, Jonathan, was the youngest. It always seemed as though he was an afterthought to her. All her adoration went to her two eldest daughters, Charlotte and Emily. She helped them endlessly—with home renovations, raising their children, shopping, even paying off their debts. But Jonathan and I might as well have been invisible.
In eight years of marriage, we never received so much as a scrap of help from her. No gifts, no calls, no visits. We weren’t invited to family gatherings, not even to her grandchildren’s birthdays or her own milestone celebrations. She rarely spoke to us, and when she did, it was curt—if she could spare the time at all.
When our son was born, I secretly hoped that at least a grandson might soften her heart. No such luck. She didn’t even come to see him. All she said over the phone was, *“Pity it wasn’t a girl,”* and that was that. Jonathan was crushed, trying to understand what he’d done wrong. Eventually, he gave up. We leaned entirely on my parents. They were the ones who supported us—looking after our son while we worked double shifts, helping with groceries, giving us strength when we needed it.
My mother-in-law became a stranger to us long ago. We’d send her a text on holidays, and that was the end of it. That chapter of our lives seemed firmly closed.
Then everything changed when she was hospitalised. The doctors delivered a devastating diagnosis—a condition that would leave her immobile, requiring constant care. The moment Jonathan heard, he dropped everything at work and rushed to her. He came back a different man—angry, lost, broken inside. He’d always been kind, fair—yet there he was, shouting in frustration for the first time.
It turned out she’d need round-the-clock care after being discharged. Her daughters wasted no time holding a *“family meeting”*—and decided that Jonathan and I should be the ones to do it. Charlotte had a newborn, they said. Emily’s house in Surrey was *too far* from London to make the trip. Not a word about us—both working, raising our own child, never having been close to her in the first place.
The idea of *“letting us”* have her flat was insulting. Especially since she’d already signed over everything to her daughters—the countryside cottage to Charlotte, the car to Emily. *“Compensation for their care,”* they called it. Now, suddenly, they remembered Jonathan, the one who always got the scraps. But when he refused, they accused him of heartlessness, saying he wasn’t fit to carry his mother’s name.
I’m exhausted. I do pity her, truly. But she’s a stranger. I can’t bring myself to care for someone who spent years pretending we didn’t exist. Jonathan isn’t himself—consumed by guilt. But what duty does he owe to someone who spent his whole life dismissing him?
He said if his sisters believed she deserved care, they could sell her three-bed flat and hire a professional carer. He’d contribute money—but not his life. Because we have our own lives. Our own well-being. Our own right to peace.
I know old age isn’t easy. But why must the burden fall on those who were always cast aside? Where were these *“precious daughters”* when she fell ill? Why do they get to stand back now, while I—a woman she never acknowledged—am expected to drop everything and become her nurse?
I know some will judge. *“You can’t abandon the elderly.”* *“Family is family.”* But this story isn’t that simple. There’s too much hurt. Too much unfairness.
And worst of all—it’s far too late to change it now.
