Why is ONE sibling always left to care for elderly parents?

And why, asks KATE MULVEY, did it have to be me ...

THE dishwasher was stacked, the crumbs swept away and the leftover roast beef wrapped in foil ready for sandwiches. meanwhile, my two sisters and their children were hurtling down the motorway back to their respective homes.

every Sunday we have lunch at my dad’s. and every time, deep-seated resentment smoulders within me as my sisters waltz in, laughing and content, eat, then immediately leave — ‘too busy’ with their children to help with clearing up.

Such was my fury last week that I snatched up a photo of us three siblings from the windowsill and hurled it across the room. It shattered into tiny fragments. not unlike our sisterly bond, I thought, bitterly.

The problem? dad-related chores always fall to me: cleaning the house, making his supper, not to mention his endless round of hospital and doctor’s appointments.

The reason? my sisters are married with children and I am not.

There seems to be a tacit agreement that my life is less important because I don’t have a family of my own.

at 51, I have slipped into the role of maiden aunt — that derided central figure in large Victorian families who gave up the chance of marriage to devote her life to looking after ageing parents, without complaint.

Far from being confined to the annals of history, maiden aunts are on the rise. as more women leave it too late to have children (one in five are childless at 45) or choose not to marry (30 per cent live alone), they bear the brunt of any (unwelcome) elderly parent duties.

I know many women in this position and, for most of us, this is not how we wanted our lives to be.

Like so many modern maiden aunts, I always imagined I would meet mr right, have a family and settle down in a house in the country. Yet the dream never materialised.

I often wake up in the middle of the night wondering where it all went wrong. That’s bad enough, but being burdened with the lion’s share of caring for my elderly parents adds insult to injury.

I moved into my parents’ spare room in 2010 — to help dad when my late mother was diagnosed with dementia. It was the right thing to do, but it means there is now no escape from ‘doing my duty’.

While I wouldn’t dream of shirking my responsibilities, I’d appreciate an acknowledgement from people around me that though my life has taken a different turn to theirs, it is no less important.

at times, I am in despair at having to continually put my own hopes and dreams to one side.

Growing up, I was the middle, mischievous child, making my sisters laugh round the dinner table as my parents looked on in despair. We grew up in a large rambling house in London: dad is an artist; mum taught at the local primary school.

my sisters went on to marry and have children. Sarah, 54, has Georgia, 17, and myles, 14; and Louise, 45, has George, 13, and Oskar, ten. I never stopped to think about starting a family, content with the party lifestyle. Somehow my biological clock never ticked loudly enough, meaning I turned down a good few decent suitors in my prime.

It wasn’t until five years ago, when mum, then 72, was diagnosed with vascular dementia that the consequences of my choices became blindingly clear.

Mum, once gentle, became volatile, throwing keys across the room and shouting incoherently. Within a year she’d had a stroke and was bedridden and incontinent.

at the time I was living in a friend’s spare room in a flat nearby, having left my fiancee, with whom I’d been living for eight years.

When my father suggested moving back in to help with my mother, I jumped at the chance. It was to be a temporary arrangement. I would live rent-free in their large flat in Chelsea, lick my wounds and help my father. at first, I was so happy to be back in a lovely flat where I didn’t have to label my milk in the fridge. Then life as I knew it came to an abrupt halt.

Instead of a lazy cappuccino in bed, I was up early to make mum her breakfast. Then there were the carers to attend to, groceries to buy and ‘babysitting’ mum.

She would scream out at night if her covers had fallen off or if she thought it was daytime and no one was there. I would pat the duvet reassuringly, telling her everything was all right.

I quickly started to resent being the only daughter whose life had been turned upside down.

Once, Sarah asked what it was like living with our parents. ‘Oh, God, it’s harrowing,’ I replied, tears welling up in my eyes.

‘Well, I don’t think it is harrowing,’ she said.

Of course she didn’t, I thought. She wasn’t there to experience the dayto-day horrors. I didn’t say anything: there was no point. But my resentment took hold. I never said anything to dad, either: he simply didn’t have the energy to deal with squabbling daughters.

I knew my sisters were busy juggling jobs and children, but I felt I was the one doing all the real work.

In 2012, mum had a second stroke. Though my sisters visited the hospital every other day, it was left to me to talk to the nurses, whom mum spent the day screaming at, and sit with dad as he held her hand and wept.

after a couple of months, mum came back home. I was consumed with anger about the continued inequality. Instead of being patient and kind to my poor dad, I’d end up screaming at him and retreating to my room.

When it came to my sisters, things weren’t much better. Instead of solving our problems with maturity, old sibling rivalries rushed to the fore.

I was the resentful middle child who took everything personally, Sarah, the eldest, wanted to be in charge and Louise, the baby, just wanted everyone to be happy. That is why I will always regret shouting at my little sister when she came round one day to babysit mum.

She said she had to leave early to take her son to a cricket match. as usual, I had to step in. I shrieked at her like a banshee. I really shouldn’t have — I never argue with Louise and she didn’t phone me for a week.

as time went on, the tensions grew. One morning in april 2013, I phoned Sarah, shouting that I’d had enough. mum had just thrown the food I had made her on the floor. Sarah thought I was being disrespectful; I thought she was being unsupportive.

Thankfully, my friends were understanding. Like Judy, a 55-year-old unmarried designer without children, who knows exactly what it is like. When her father was diagnosed with cancer, she was on hand at the hospital, talking to doctors and making sure he got his favourite food.

Her brother, meanwhile, married with two children, made the odd weekend visit and daily phone call.

‘What really hurt is that the moment he walked through the door with his two adorable children, my father forgot I was there,’ she says.

another single fiftysomething friend is still fuming about the two years spent looking after her father, who had alzheimer’s. Her brother and sister, whom she used to see all the time, were suddenly absent, yet she was ‘expected to be on call 24/7’.

my mother died last year in a hospice. after that, it was just me and dad rattling around the flat.

I remember once hearing a muffled noise coming from the kitchen. There was dad, clutching a couple of bracelets the children had made mum, tears plopping into his sandwich. I took his hand, understanding there was nothing that I could do, except be there.

Of course, my sisters are as sympathetic as I am. The difference is that I am actually there, going through all the emotions with dad. This can leave me feeling utterly wretched. Louise told me she’d love to take him to his appointments and cook him his favourite Italian dishes, but that she’s always helping with her children’s homework, putting the washing on and so on.

Sadly, I’m not on general speaking terms with Sarah, though we are civil during our Sunday lunches at dad’s. This is partly to do with me being left with all the responsibility for dad and partly about other things.

We’ve always had a bit of a lovehate relationship. I am certain we’ll get over it. We always do.

There are also positives to my situation. I’ve grown closer to dad over these past few years: we get on, I make him laugh and I benefit from his wisdom whenever I have a crisis.

So what next? I don’t know if I’ll ever meet a man and settle down. at the moment, I have no plans to move out of dad’s.

I just hope that one day my two sisters will see that a less-than-conventional life like mine is no less important than theirs.