Sometimes the most important job is the one that doesn’t officially exist.

Theme: The Beauty

Quick Take

My mother thinks I work for two charities
One rescues puppies
The other rescues my sanity

Flexible Working

I have a job that doesn’t exist.

That’s important to say first.

There is no office. No payroll. No colleagues. No pension plan.

Only my mother - 90-year-old Milly, living with mixed dementia - and me.

The job is fictional.

I invented it.

I started it last year, not long after Milly moved in with us. Not for the pay. Not because I wanted a career change. But because I needed somewhere to go without leaving the house.

Caring for someone you love is relentless in a way no official job ever is. There are no weekends off. No performance reviews. No nice little pay rises. No clocking off.

So I created somewhere to clock on to.

Clocking On

As Milly understands it, I work for two charities: one for animals and one for disadvantaged children - causes she has loved her whole life.

She was a nursery teacher. We always had dogs. The story makes sense to her and that matters.

“Working again?!” she says. “Gosh, I hope they pay you properly.”

“They’re so lucky to have you.”

Why I Need a Payroll Department That Doesn’t Exist

I don’t clock on because of the money - Carer’s Allowance isn’t exactly a salary, and Attendance Allowance doesn’t stretch to bonuses - I clock on because sometimes I need a day, or most of a day, when I’m not ‘on duty.’

When I’m not repeating answers. When I’m not re-entering the same conversation for the fifth time.

When I’m not explaining that yes, it is Tuesday, and no, there’s no ‘playgroup’ (lunch club) today.

If I don’t step away, I can feel resentment quietly building. So I made somewhere to go, without leaving the house, and called it ‘work’.

Buns & Box Sets

Some days are perfect.

I bake cottage cheese and oat buns, smother them in Marmite, and sit down with a mug of coffee to stream an entire new series. The healthy buns help me pretend I’m at least slightly virtuous.

Protocols and Quality Assurance

Every two hours, I carry out site visits: toilet and movement check, tea check, meal check.

There’s a small screen near the TV linked to a camera that alerts me to movement, so I can respond as needed.

I’m not absent. I’m adjacent.

“How long have you got to work today?”

“Oh, it’s a long one. A little project for children,” I reply professionally.

She nods gravely. “Arghhhh.”. She never asks for details. “I bet they think you’re wonderful. You always do so much.”

She’s always respected a strong work ethic. She looks at me with pride.

Being Admired, Not Needed

Milly thanks me all the time. For the tea. For the tablets. For her meals. For lifting her legs onto the stool. Her gratitude is constant and genuine, and it steadies me more than I probably admit.

But it’s gratitude threaded with dependence. It lands differently.

When she praises the job, she isn’t thanking me for keeping her safe and loved. She’s proud of me. She imagines colleagues, responsibilities, people who rely on my skills.

In those moments I’m not her carer.

I am competent. Chosen. Valuable beyond this house.

And somehow that kind of praise reaches a part of me that “thank you for everything” can’t quite touch.

She believes I leave the room to work. What I’m actually doing is trying not to disappear.

So Much Softer

Some people might call it a lie. I understand that.

There is no charity. No salary. No manager. But I am working. Just not in the way Milly thinks.

I’m working at not becoming resentful.

Working at staying kind.

Working at feeling like me.

Remembering that I am so much softer when I’ve had time alone, with no demands and no pressure.

And on a good week, I think I might just earn Employee of the Month!

Do they even do that anymore?!

Employee of the Month