“I’m Not a Carer”
“Rachel, I’ve got some tough news,” began Oliver with a heavy sigh, weighing his words like loose change in his pocket. “Mum’s in a bad way. Eighty-five isn’t exactly a walk in the park, you know. She needs round-the-clock care—can’t manage on her own now.”
“Oh, Oliver, I saw this coming,” Rachel replied wearily, gazing out the window at the damp streets of Manchester. “Have you talked to your brother? We’ll have to hire a carer, surely. There’s no other way.”
“Yeah, spoke to Simon this morning,” Oliver nodded, rubbing his temples. “But carers cost an arm and a leg. And letting a stranger look after Mum? Doesn’t sit right with me. She needs family—someone who actually cares.”
“So, you’re suggesting we take shifts?” Rachel frowned. “What about Lydia, Simon’s wife? Will she agree? She’s so… refined. Doubt she’ll fancy playing nurse to an ill old woman.”
“No, Simon reckons we shouldn’t bother Lydia,” Oliver waved a hand dismissively. “You know how sensitive she is—wouldn’t handle Mum’s state. We’ve discussed it, and… well, we think you should quit your job and take care of Mum.”
Rachel’s breath hitched. The room might as well have frozen. She’d worked at the local primary school for years—retirement was just around the corner—and the idea of throwing it all away to tend to her mother-in-law felt like a nightmare.
“Oliver, I need time to think,” she forced out, masking the tremor in her voice. “If I quit, I lose my pension contributions, my salary, everything! This isn’t some minor favour!”
“Rachel, I’ll provide for you,” Oliver said firmly. “Simon and I have it sorted. You’re the best option. Mum won’t accept a stranger—you know how stubborn she is.”
“Oliver, I’m not exactly in peak health myself!” Rachel shot back, frustration bubbling up. “I’ve been counting down to retirement so I can finally live for *me*. Looking after an elderly woman is backbreaking work! And you and Simon didn’t even ask me—just decided *for* me. How am I supposed to manage Margaret alone?”
“We’ll manage, Rachel,” Oliver said placatingly, though exhaustion laced his voice. “Simon and I will help. And let’s not forget—we live in the flat Mum *gifted* us. Time to show some gratitude, don’t you think?”
Ah yes, Margaret had indeed given Oliver the flat as a wedding present. It was in his name alone, but his mother never missed a chance to remind Rachel she’d “landed on her feet” marrying into their family.
“Lucky you, Rachel, ending up with *us*,” Margaret would say, her tone dripping with thinly veiled disdain. “No money, no property—your parents were from some Yorkshire village. Without Oliver, you’d still be stuck there, wouldn’t you?”
Oliver’s family had always treated Rachel like an outsider—too ordinary, too unambitious. Lydia, Simon’s wife, though? Margaret’s golden girl. Sweet-talked, showered with compliments and lavish gifts.
Lydia got delicate gold bracelets for her birthday; Rachel got a half-price body spray from Boots. Lydia received a designer handbag; Rachel, a moth-eaten scarf or a pile of outdated magazines. Rachel begged for no gifts at all, but Margaret insisted—*someone* had to remind her of her place.
When Rachel brought it up with Oliver, he’d shrug: “Oh, come off it, Rachel. Mum means well. Don’t make a fuss.”
The favouritism extended to the grandchildren, too. Margaret doted on Simon and Lydia’s son, Daniel, while barely acknowledging Rachel and Oliver’s daughter, Emily. Even now, with Emily studying in Leeds, she rarely called—too wrapped up in her own life.
Rachel refused to cave. She took a month’s leave to trial caring for Margaret, telling Oliver firmly:
“I’ll do this for *one* month. Then we discuss alternatives. It’s not fair to dump this all on me.”
“Fine, a month,” Oliver agreed. “But there’s one more thing—Mum can’t stay alone in her flat. She’s moving in with us. It’s easier this way.”
Rachel sighed. “Fine. *One* month, Oliver. Don’t forget.”
The next day, Margaret was installed in their spare room—barely mobile, bedridden, filling the flat with the sour tang of medicine and quiet despair. Oliver fretted over her, barking orders at Rachel:
“Fluff her pillows—she’s uncomfortable!”
“Cook dinner and feed her—she can’t do it herself!”
“Make sure she takes her pills. That’s *your* job now!”
Rachel tried, but she wasn’t young herself, and Margaret—wilfully difficult—spilled soup, hid medication, and complained endlessly about drafts or stuffiness.
A week in, Simon and Lydia swanned in for an inspection, barely acknowledging Rachel. Simon crouched by Margaret’s bed, whispering:
“Mum, how are you holding up? Rachel treating you alright? If not, say the word.”
“Oh, darling,” Margaret wheezed, “who wants a sick old woman? Rachel acts like I’m a chore. I hinted at beef stew, and she served *leftover spaghetti*!”
Rachel, eavesdropping from the kitchen, snapped:
“Margaret, we had soup! I’ll make stew *tomorrow*. No point cooking feasts if they’ll go to waste!”
Lydia gasped. “How could you? Fresh meals *daily*—that’s basic care! You’re not even working now—what’s your excuse?”
“Lydia, I’m run off my feet,” Rachel gritted out. “Cleaning, cooking, bathing her. When it’s *your* turn, do it your way. Maybe you’ll manage better.”
“I *can’t*!” Lydia recoiled. “I’ve got a career! I’m clueless about caregiving!”
Simon and Lydia left soon after, offering zero help. Rachel expected nothing. But Oliver’s indifference stung most. When she begged for assistance, he’d say:
“Rachel, you’ve got this. I’m shattered from work. And let’s face it—caring’s women’s work. Always has been.”
Three weeks passed. Rachel’s leave was ending. Oliver huddled with Simon, plotting. Finally, he cornered her:
“Simon and I decided: you’ll quit and care for Mum. In return, you get her flat. She’ll update her will.”
“No, Oliver!” Rachel’s temper flared. “I’m *exhausted*. I won’t wreck my life for a flat! I want *peace*.”
“Peace?” Oliver scoffed. “What about Emily? Don’t you want to help *her*?”
“Oliver, your mother could live another decade—and I’ll be the one bedridden by then! The flat’s *yours* anyway. Sell it, split the cash—Emily gets her share.”
“Half isn’t the same!” Oliver scowled. “And a carer’ll drain savings. Your paltry salary’s no loss—you’re *better off* at home. Stop being difficult.”
Rachel stared him down. “No. Final answer.”
Oliver fumed, but Rachel—for once—stood firm.
Soon after, she did the unthinkable. Quietly, she rented a tiny flat in Manchester and moved out. It wasn’t easy, but Emily backed her, promising to chip in.
Oliver scrambled to hire a carer—no way *he’d* step up.
And Rachel? She lost what passed for “family” but gained something priceless: freedom. For the first time in years, she breathed easy. She was finally living for *herself*.