I was only a child, but I do  recall the smell of disinfectant, the sound of water splashing on the tiled floor, and my mother crouching near my grandfather to wash his weak body. His illness had taken everything away from him—his strength, dignity, and independence—but it had also taken something away from her. She was the one who bathed him when he soiled himself, fed him when he could no longer lift a spoon to his lips, and bore the burden of his illness on her exhausted shoulders. She was not his daughter. She was his son's wife. Except for my father, none of his children seemed to think that they were responsible for his well-being. And because my father was away most of the time as a police officer, my mother took on the full responsibility.

My grandfather had always been sick. Long before my father married my mother, he had suffered a stroke. Over the years, his condition deteriorated, and my mother was the one who shouldered the burden of his care. He became completely dependent on her, and though my father’s siblings occasionally sent money, none of them took any responsibility for his well-being. It was my mother who was there every day, tending to his needs, making sure he was fed, cleaned, and as comfortable as possible.

Before all this, she had never truly been welcomed into my father’s family, except for my grandfather himself. From the moment she married my father, they judged her, based on her height and background. She was a poor girl from a struggling family, and that was enough to make them disregard her. She was never good enough for their son, their brother, or their family name. They tolerated her, but just barely. Yet, when my grandfather's illness deteriorated, it was she who bore the brunt of his care, sitting by his bedside night after night, holding his hand through his agony. And when he died in 2011, not one of them acknowledged what she had done.

Four years later, in 2015, my grandmother was diagnosed with diabetes, and it all began again. The woman who had never completely accepted my mother and had once openly criticised her, became another dependent for her to care for. The sickness gradually weakened her body, and once again it was my mother who stepped in. She cleaned her wounds, managed her medications, and carried her fragile body when she was unable to move on her own. Again, my father's siblings remained away, sending money on occasion but never contributing their time, presence, or gratitude. My grandmother lived for several years with her illness, and through it all, my mother remained her primary caregiver. Then in 2020, during the pandemic, my grandmother passed away. And once again, my mother’s years of sacrifice went unrecognized.

It was as though my mother's labour was an unspoken expectation, a tacit pact she had never agreed to. It wasn't just that she was a woman; it was that she was the first son's wife, the first daughter-in-law, the one tasked with keeping the family together, serving without question, bearing the weight of their needs. She did not complain. But I could see it— I could still remember the tiredness in her eyes, the way her body grew tired, the way her spirit dimmed.

And then, my father fell sick too. But unlike his parents, he kept it to himself. He had seen what my mother had been through, what she had carried. He had watched her drain herself for the sake of his family, and he did not want to add to her burden. So he suffered in silence, battling a heart condition alone, hiding it from all of us until it could no longer be hidden. He did what none of his own family members had done—he protected her. But even that protection came too late because by then, my mother had already given everything she had to give.

The story of my mother is the story of countless Nigerian women. Women who marry not only their husbands but their entire families. Women who are expected to serve, to give, and sacrifice without complaint. Women whose emotional and physical labour is demanded but never properly acknowledged. Caring is not seen as work. This is not something for which they should be thanked. It is simply what they have to do.

In many Nigerian families, the first daughter-in-law is more than a wife; she serves as a second mother, a nurse, a mediator, a provider. The burden of the family's problems falls on her because tradition requires her to keep everything together. She is responsible for caring for the elderly parents if they become ill. She is responsible for resolving any sibling disputes. When a husband is absent, either physically or emotionally, she must fill the void. And yet, no matter how much she does, it is never enough. She is never truly seen.

The irony is that many of these women were also raised to serve. They were taught from an early age to care for younger siblings, handle home chores, and prioritise others. Marriage does not free them from this burden; rather, it deepens their obligations. They leave one family where they were caregivers and enter another where the cycle is repeated all over again. Their lives are defined by service, and their worth is determined by how much they can endure.

But endurance is not love. Sacrifice is not gratitude. And obligation is not respect.

When I think about my mother. I think about how much she gave and how little she got back. I recall the years she spent caring for people who never appreciated her efforts, who saw her as a duty-bearer rather than a person. She deserved more— more appreciation, more support, more care. And I wonder, how do we break this cycle?

How do we begin to recognize that caregiving is work, real work, work that deserves acknowledgment and respect? How do we shift the expectations placed on women, so they are no longer seen as default caregivers simply because of their gender? How do we teach men—brothers, sons, husbands—that they, too, have responsibilities?

Because the truth is, caregiving should not rest solely on the shoulders of women. It should be divided, shared, and balanced. It should not be something that drains a woman's life while others look on. It should be a collective effort, a family duty, a human responsibility.

And until we understand that, women like my mother will continue to give, and give, and give—until there is nothing left of them to give at all.