My mother-in-law and I only started getting along after my husband died. I knew I had to take care of her.

The author takes care of her 101-year-old mother-in-law.

I promised my husband David that after he lost his battle with cancer, I would care for his mom. At 93, Joy was active and independent, living in her New York City apartment. I never imagined she would live eight more years to 101.

My mother-in-law and I had a complicated relationship, fighting for David’s time and attention for 25 years. I resented the times he took her side over mine.

But our relationship changed for the better after my husband died.

My relationship with her was difficult

For Joy, who gave birth to her son at 35 and raised him alone, I was an interloper, competing for David’s time. Joy would say any mean or rude thing to me she liked, unapologetically, just because she was old.

As David’s last days arrived, Joy refused to see the skin pulled tight over his bones and the oxygen tank helping him breathe. She was angry I did not tell her explicitly that he was about to die. I thought it was obvious.

After I let her know David was gone, Joy contacted the funeral home she preferred to pick up his body, then told me what she had arranged. She never asked if it was OK.

When I refused, telling her David would be cremated, Joy hung up, then had the funeral home director call to try to change my mind.

Our resentment turned to love

Six years ago, Joy got out of a taxi in Times Square to go to a Broadway show. She lost her balance, fell hard, and was rushed to the ER.

Tiny and scared in her hospital gown, she implored me, “You won’t let them keep me, will you?” I promised I wouldn’t.

At home again, Joy was weaker. Her memory started slipping. She needed me for the first time.

Accustomed to being fiercely independent, my mother-in-law has trouble asking for and accepting help. I need to focus and stay fully present when I am with her. She senses when I am distracted and gets upset.

What started off as an obligation grew into us loving each other.

Our relationship is a gift

When Joy gets frustrated or angry, I am the one who won’t leave her. Joy does not have to do anything to earn my love; it’s hers for no reason.

In the middle of the pandemic, Joy called me three times to say she was lost in Times Square. Nothing was open. I panicked, looking all over the neighborhood. I found her watching a western on TV in her apartment. She simply forgot where she was.

At 101, Joy uses her walker to get food from the kitchen, use the commode, and watch TV. She can’t safely take a shower alone.

Practical chores include grocery shopping, laundry, cleaning up, helping Joy change, taking her to appointments, and paying bills all fall on me. But so do intimate tasks like helping her clean up after using the commode, putting lotion on her itchy skin, and dentures into her mouth are more delicate to navigate.

She comes alive while interacting with people but doesn’t have energy for too many or too long. Thirty-five guests came to her 100th birthday party, complete with balloons, decorations, and two cakes.

I carefully curate visits with friends so she has fun but doesn’t exhaust herself. Joy flirts with Omar, her physical therapist, as they walk the hall and do leg exercises.

Joy usually knows who I am. If not, my wedding photos with David help to remind her. One bad, sad day, she said, “Tell me about myself.”

Sometimes, Joy wants me to stay as she drifts off to sleep because she gets so lonely. I stroke her back in gentle circles. Joy says, “When you do that, I feel like you care.” She’s right, I do care.

Even when Joy forgets me, I want her to remember I love her. She taught me to slow down and be present. I am grateful for every moment with her.