“My Mum’s Moving In and Needs Full-Time Care – You’ll Have to Look After Her!”: When David Told Clai…

Mums unwell and shell need to stay with usyoull have to look after her! announced William to his wife, Sophie.

Excuse me? Sophie set down her phone, where shed just been checking her work messages. The Wednesday morning sunlight was streaming through the back window, but Williams news landed like a hailstorm.

William stood in the kitchen doorway, arms folded as if he had just delivered a final and utterly unchallengeable verdict.

I said: Mums coming to live with us for a while. She needs constant care. The doctor reckons itll be at least two or three months, maybe longer.

Sophie felt as if something inside her was being wrung out slowly, like a dishcloth squeezed by invisible hands.

When did you decide that? she asked, making an excellent attempt to keep her voice steady.

I spoke to Emily this morning, and then called the doctor. Its all sorted.

Just like that. So, between the three of you, its been decided, and I just get to be told the news and accept it?

Williams frown was only marginalmore the look of a man whod braced himself for some vague protest, but hadnt expected it to actually materialise.

Come on, Soph, its my mum. Who else is going to do it? Emilys still living in Manchester, three kids under seven, plus her job And weve got a spare room, and youre at home most days

I work five days a week, Will. Nine till seven. Sometimes later. You remember?

He waved a hand, as if shed mentioned taking up chess. Yes, but Mums not terribly demanding. She just needs someone there: her tablets, heated up meals, help to the loo Youll manage.

Sophie studied him, feeling a cold, sharp clarity cut through her chest. Not anger (not yet), just the sudden realisation that what he saw as entirely reasonable, she saw as being loaded like a donkey at Blackpool Pleasure Beach. Her job, her fatigue, her timethose things, clearly, could be filed under Not as important as Mums needs.

Have you thought about getting a carer? she asked quietly.

William winced. You know how much that costs. A good ones upwards of fifteen hundred quid a month. Where would we get that sort of money?

Have you thought about taking some unpaid leave? Or going part-time for a bit?

He looked as if shed suggested he take up competitive skateboarding. Soph, my jobs important. They wouldnt let me have two months off. Besides, Im not a nurse! I cant do injections, measure blood pressure

I see. Whereas Im Florence Nightingale with a secret midwifery badge?

For the first time, he looked uncertain; Sophie almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

Its justwellyou know, youre a woman, he said finally, with the air of someone offering a perfectly acceptable explanation for why ducks float. Youre just better with poorly people. Natural instinct, isnt it?

She nodded slowlya gesture more for herself than him.

Right. Instinct.

He shuffled, already uncomfortable. Yeah.

Sophie turned her phone face-down on the table. Her fingers trembled, only a touch.

Alright then. How about this: you take unpaid leave for two months. Ill keep working. Well both look after your mum. Ill do what I can when Im home and at weekends, you do daytime. Deal?

William opened and closed his mouth, fishlike. Sophie Are you serious?

Deadly.

But I cant! They need me at the office!

Then we hire a carer. Ill split it half and half. Or sixty-forty if you really believe my salarys smaller. But what Im not doing is quietly becoming a volunteer nurse while working full-time, simply because nobody bothered to ask me.

The silence that followed could have been spread on toast. The kitchen clock ticked like a metronome for awkwardness.

William coughed. So youre saying no?

Sophie met his eyes. Im saying Im not doing this alone without discussion and for free. Thats different.

He looked at her, as if trying to solve a tricky crossword. At last, he said, wounded: You do know its my mum, dont you?

I do, Sophie replied softly. Which is why Im offering solutions that mean everyone gets to keep their health and dignity. Including your mum.

William left the kitchen abruptly. The living room door closednot slammed, but with the meaningful energy of an underappreciated cat.

Sophie sat at the table, staring at her now-cold tea. She had one very calm, oddly distant thought: Well, here we go. The starting whistle.

She knew what would happen: William would ring his sister, then their mum, then his sister again. Within the hour, his mother (who lived ten minutes walk away and, naturally, knew everything) would be at the door. There would be tears, someone would loudly question if Sophie knew what family meant. But above all, Sophie realised something simple and profound: she was done apologising for wanting more than four hours sleep, for insisting her job was an actual job, and for claiming some small right to exist outside a perpetual NHS drama.

She rose, opened the kitchen window wide. Cold air barrelled in, scented with wet tarmac and the faint aroma of someones barbecue two streets over.

Sophie breathed deeply.

Let them say what they like, she thought. The important part is, Ive finally said my first no.

And it turned out, this was the loudest thing shed said in twelve years of marriage.

The next morning Sophie woke to the careful clack of the front door being unlocked. Two quiet turns of the key, a pair of cautious feet. Her mother-in-law was here.

She lay listening as the coat was hung, a bag lowered, shoes slipped offa familiar ritual, now with the tension of a negotiated peace treaty.

Will? came Janices wavering voice, still tinged with a field-marshals command.

William, likely up all night, replied far too energetically: Im here, Mum! Come on into the kitchen, kettles on.

Sophie closed her eyes. He hadnt even warned her his mum was moving in today. Hed just done it.

She got up, pulled on her dressing gown, and padded towards the hall.

There was Janice: petite, hunched, in a faded blue overcoat at least a decade old, clutching a bag of medication and a thermos. Seeing Sophie, she managed a thin smile with just a smidgeon of superiority.

Morning, Sophie darling. Sorry for the early start. The doctor said the sooner I get settled, the better.

Morning, Janice, Sophie replied evenly.

William bustled in with a tray: tea, dry toast, a saucer with pills.

Mum, put your feet up in the living room. Ive prepped the sofa for you.

And wholl unpack my things? Janice eyed Sophie. Sophie, dear, would you help?

Sophies temple began to throb.

Of course. After work.

After work? Janices voice rose an octave. So wholl be with me today?

William coughed. I have to go in for meetings this morning, Mum. But Ill be back for lunch. Sophiemaybe you could take the morning off?

Sophie looked at himreally looked at him. Ive got a project pitch today. Its non-negotiable.

And after? Janice was already halfway out of her coat. Will you come straight home?

Ill be back at my usual time. Seven, half pastdepending on the trains.

A long hush. Janice slumped onto the hallway pouffe.

So, by myself all day, then?

William glanced at Sophiealmost pleading.

Sophies answer was calm, her voice low: Janice, Ill sort your meals ahead for the day. Your pills will be timed and labelled. If anything happens, ring memy phones always on, even during the pitch.

Janice pursed her lips. And if I fall? Or take the wrong tablet?

Then ring 999. Better than waiting for me to cross all of London.

William opened his mouth, shut it, replayed the moment in his head.

Janice looked at her son. Will did you hear that?

He replied softly: Shes right, Mum. We arent doctors. If its urgent, ring the ambulance.

A small shock crept through Sophie. That was the first time inwell, years?William had ever said she was right out loud.

Janice stood up, stiffly. Alright then. If thats how it is

She shuffled to her room with her bag. The door shut with a deliberate, almost artistic quiet.

William turned to Sophie. You could at least

No. Sophie cut in. I couldnt. And I wont.

She went to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water and drank it in one gulp.

William drifted over. Soph I get that this is hard for you. But shes my mum.

I know.

She really is quite ill.

I believe you.

Then why?

Sophie turned to him. Because the minute I take all this on myself, it becomes standard. Forever. Got it?

He was silent.

I love you, Will. I dont want our family to pull apart because one of us decided the other person doesnt get a say.

William looked at the tiles. Ill Ill speak to Emily again. See if she can come down at weekends, at least.

That would help.

He met her eyes. And youyoure not going to hate me for this?

Sophie managed the tiniest smilefor the first time in twenty-four hours. Im already cross. But Im trying not to stay that way for the next thirty years.

He nodded. Ill try to do better.

Sophie glanced at the clock. Right. I need to get ready. Presentations in two hours.

She went off to dress. William remained at the table, peering at his empty tea mug.

The day turned out oddly peaceful. Sophie delivered her pitch like a pro; the client was delighted, even promised a bonus for speed. She left the office at half-six, a peculiar lightness in her step.

On the Tube, she messaged William:

Hows Mum?

The reply appeared instantly: Shes asleep. Ive been home since three. Made dinner. Waiting for you.

She stared at her reflection in the window.

Waiting for you. Funny how new that sounded.

He really was waiting, too: table laid with salad, baked cod, roast potatoes. Janice in the armchair with a book.

Soph said Janice. Back at last.

Indeed.

Sit, eat. Wills done it all. Even washed up.

Sophie looked at her husband. He shrugged as if to say, What, this old thing?

She sat down.

Janice cleared her throat. Ive been thinking maybe a carer really would be best. Just during the day. Poor Wills running himself into the ground.

Sophie lifted her eyes. Very sensible.

Ill ring Emily, William added. We can all chip in. She promised to help.

Janice sighed. Cant quite believe Ive reached the age where a strangers got to change my knickers for me.

William was gentle. No ones a stranger, Mum. Were family. Its just that things are different.

After a long pause, Janice nodded. I think its time to learn.

The phone rang. Janice glanced: Its Emily.

William picked up. Hi, Mum yes, were home truth is, we could use more help. Not just the money. Could you come for weekends? Talk it all through?

He set the phone down.

Shell come Saturday.

Sophie nodded. For the first time in years, she realised, she wasnt dreading coming home. Not because it was suddenly peaceful, but because her voice was finally being heard.

Three weeks passed. Janices cough grew less dramatic. The tablets helped, and sometimes shed shuffle into the kitchen for her own cuppa. Most importantly: the house got quieternot the uneasy hush of everyone avoiding a blow-up, but the calm of people slowly, stubbornly learning to coexist.

Saturday arrived, and Emily swept inbags, toddler, apologetic grin.

Hi, mum Sophie, Will Sorry it took me forever to get here.

Janice, perched by the window, turned round carefully, as though she might be dreaming.

You came after all.

Course I did! Emily handed William her daughter, then knelt by the chair. I promised, didnt I?

Sophie leaned in the kitchen doorway, spectating.

Emily pulled out a printed leaflet. Its a carers advertcertified, references, all that. She can do nine-to-seven, five days a week. Weekends, well sort ourselves.

Janice took the paper, eyeing her children. And the cost?

We split it three waysme, Will, and Sophie. Evenly, William replied.

Evenly, echoed Janice, as if tasting the word for the first time.

Emily nodded. None of us can just down tools, but you really need professional help now. And that matters.

Sophie added, Weve already spoken to a carerher names Louise Wilkinson. Fifty-eight, loads of experience. Shell come meet you tomorrow.

Janice was silent, then, without the usual squint, she looked straight at Sophie.

You know, you couldve just said no and walked out. Plenty would.

Sophie shrugged. Maybe. But then everyone would have suffered, especially you.

Janice looked at her hands. I Ive been thinking a lot these weeks. Being on my own all day. All my life I just assumed if I was the mum, everyone else had to, well work around me. Turns out its me that needs to do some changing.

Emily squeezed her hand. No-ones asking you to do anything drastic, mum. Just live so everyone can breathe easier.

Janice looked around the room. Im sorry, Sophie. I really did think I had the right to demand.

Sophie felt a long pain release in her chest. Apology accepted, Janice.

Janice almost smiled, really smiled, for the first time in forever. Well then. Lets meet this Louise Wilkinson. Looks like Im not the queen of the house after all!

Williams laughter was lightan unfamiliar but lovely sound. Not the queen. Just our mum. Whom we all adore. And now were going to get it right, properly.

That evening, Emily bundled up her little girl and headed for the station. Janice was asleep; the house was, for once, peaceful. Sophie and William sat in their tiny kitchen, bottle of cheap red uncorked.

You know, said William quietly, refilling Sophies glass, I thought youd leave.

She gawked. Did you?

I honestly did. That first night, when you said no, I thought that was it. I half-expected you to pack a suitcase and say Handle this yourself.

Sophie swirled her wine, thinking. I considered it. For about a minute.

What stopped you?

She took her time, then said, I realised if I left now, Id never know if you could become the man I always hoped you besomeone who actually shares the load.

William nodded, eyes lowered. Ive learned a lot these last weeks. Still learning.

Ive noticed.

He looked up. Thank you for giving me the chance.

She smiledgenuinely, this time. Thank you for taking it.

They raised their glasses: gentle, solemn.

Outside, the first snow of the winter swept past the streetlight, a soft blanket turning the city quietly new.

Janices bedside lamp glowed reassuringly, andmiraculouslythe air in Sophie and Williams bedroom smelled not of hospital wipes and anxiety, but simply, contentedly, of home. Their home.