My mother-in-law adored her daughters all her life. Now, in her old age, it’s me who’s expected to take care of her.
My mother-in-law has three children. My husband, James, was the youngest, and it always seemed like he was an afterthought to her. All her love and attention went to the two older daughters—Emily and Charlotte. She helped them with everything: home repairs, childcare, shopping, even paying off their debts. But James and I might as well have been invisible.
In eight years of marriage, we never received an ounce of help from her. No gifts, no phone calls, no visits. We were never invited to family gatherings, not even to her grandkids’ birthdays or her own milestone celebrations. When she did speak to us, it was curt and rare—if she could be bothered at all.
When our son was born, I secretly hoped her grandson might soften her heart. But no. She didn’t even come to see him. She just muttered down the phone, “Pity it’s not a girl,” and that was that. James was crushed, wondering what he’d done wrong. Eventually, he stopped wondering. We leaned entirely on my parents—they were the ones who supported us, looked after our son when we worked double shifts, helped with groceries, and stood by us in every way.
Over time, she became a stranger. We’d send her a text on holidays, and that was the extent of it. That chapter of our lives felt long closed.
Then she fell ill. The doctors gave a grim diagnosis—a condition that left her immobile and needing round-the-clock care. As soon as James heard, he rushed to her side, though it wrecked him. He came home angry, lost, and broken. He’d always been kind and fair, but that night, he yelled for the first time in his life.
After her discharge, she needed constant care. Her daughters held a quick “family meeting” and decided James and I should take responsibility. One had a newborn, they said, and the other lived in Surrey, too far to travel into London regularly. Not a word about our jobs, our child, or the fact we’d never been close to her.
Their “offer” to let us stay in her flat felt like crumbs—especially since she’d already signed everything over to them. The cottage in Kent went to Emily. The car to Charlotte. “For all their help,” as they put it. Only now did they remember their brother, the one who’d always been given scraps. When James refused, they called him heartless, screaming he wasn’t fit to bear their mother’s name.
I’m just tired. I do pity her—truly. But she’s a stranger. I can’t care for someone who spent years pretending we didn’t exist. James is torn apart by guilt, but what duty does he owe to someone who spent a lifetime dismissing him?
He said if his sisters believed she deserved care, they could sell her three-bedroom flat and hire a professional carer. He’d contribute financially, but not with his life. Because we have our own—our health, our peace.
Old age isn’t easy, but why should those who were always cast aside bear the burden? Where were these “beloved daughters” when she needed them? Why must I, an outsider, drop everything to play nursemaid while they watch from afar?
Some will judge. They’ll say family shouldn’t abandon the elderly, that blood is blood. But this story is too tangled, too full of hurt and unfairness.
And above all—too late for healing.
Sometimes, love can’t be demanded where it was never given.
