Valuing daughters means sharing the responsibility of care

When Zunaira came into my life in 2014, and Nora the following year, I began to think differently about a question I had often encountered as a feminist economist: what does it mean to value a daughter? Becoming the father to two girls changed what I noticed about the lives ahead of them. More recently, caring for my mother has changed what I understand about the work of care itself.

The idea that daughters change their fathers is more than a sentimental claim. A 2008 study suggested that fathers of daughters become more sympathetic to some policies affecting women. In terms of whether raising daughters makes fathers more left-wing, subsequent evidence has been mixed, and political affiliation is a crude measure of what happens inside a family. But the narrower idea resonates with me: daughters can make their fathers notice barriers they might otherwise have treated as someone else’s problem.

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When my daughters were small and we lived in Kuala Lumpur, I did not know what careers or relationships they would choose. I did know that I wanted their choices and options to extend beyond the bounds of the roles others might expect them to fill. As an economist, I had written about gender and family decisions. As their father, I began to hear familiar claims about the “value” of daughters differently. But value to whom? Would their education expand their freedom, or simply make them better equipped to carry obligations that families had always assigned to women?

One such claim concerns care in old age. Across much of Asia, sons have traditionally been valued as a source of security for parents. Yet, support is not exhausted by money sent home or a call from overseas. The quality of a relationship, the possibility of sharing a meal, and the presence of someone who notices health changes can also shape an older person’s quality of life.

My colleagues at Chulalongkorn University in Thailand and I explored this question in a study of older people in Thailand, published in 2023 in the Journal of Happiness Studies. Using nationally representative survey data, we found that living with an adult child was associated with greater happiness than living alone. For older women, the association was particularly evident when that child was a daughter. A good relationship with a daughter living in the same household was associated with greater happiness for both mothers and fathers; for mothers, a co-resident daughter’s university education also mattered. Living with daughters was linked to less loneliness and, in some cases, better reported health and economic circumstances.

It would be a mistake to turn these findings into validation for assigning a duty to girls. This is evidence of association in Thailand; it cannot tell us that the daughter’s presence caused her parent’s happiness, or what the arrangement cost her. We did not measure whether she had chosen to live there, whether her own life was flourishing, or what kind of support she herself could count on. A parent’s gain should never be presumed to come without effort from the child who helps make it possible.

The prevailing culture in Bangladesh adds its own pressures. Girls’ schooling and professional aspirations have widened possibilities, even as many women still face obstacles to paid work. Migration can carry sons and daughters far from parents; smaller families may have fewer people to depend on during a prolonged illness. The expectation that an educated daughter will build a career, care for her children, remain available to ageing parents, and meet the needs of her marital household can place incompatible demands on one person. Celebrating her capacity for care without attending to those demands would be pointless and unfair.

For me, the concept of care became less abstract after my widowed mother suffered a serious spinal injury. I returned to Bangladesh and assumed the day-to-day responsibilities for her rehabilitation. Physical therapy at the hospital, exercises at home, appointments, medicines, and the constant practical decisions surrounding my mother’s limited mobility became part of our lives. After many months of effort, she regained some mobility, although she still needs substantial assistance.

The decision to care for my mother dedicatedly changed the course of my professional and personal life. I do not recount the experience to present myself as exceptional. But it did teach me how inadequate the word “support” can be to describe the care work which must be repeated every day.

I am a son, and the person who was able to be there. What my mother needed was sustained care; the gender of the person providing it did not matter. My experience also made me more appreciative of caregivers whose contributions have long been taken for granted, particularly women balancing paid work and unpaid care responsibilities. Care needs time, skills, money, and reliable help. Affection is one part of it, but it is not enough to, say, arrange a therapy visit or make an inaccessible home safe.

What might children learn when a parent responds to an older generation’s needs? They may come to see that love can be expressed through patient, practical action, and that men as well as women can undertake care work. The example we set matters more than the roles we prescribe. No daughter should be asked to prove her worth by surrendering her independence. No son should be treated as though earning money fulfils the whole of his responsibility to an ageing parent.

Families should not try to meet every care need by redistributing duties among children. Older people need accessible rehabilitation and dependable services. Caregivers need flexible work, trustworthy assistance, and time to sustain their own health and relationships. These forms of support are especially important for households unable to purchase private care services. As Bangladeshis live longer, care must become a public concern alongside a family one.

Becoming a father to two daughters changed the questions I asked about gender and family. Caring for my mother later on taught me how much a family’s promises depend on being able to be present. We must learn to value girls for the lives they choose and to build a society in which care is possible for everyone who needs it and shared among everyone able to provide it.

Dr M Niaz Asadullah is professor of economics at Dhaka University and a visiting professor at the University of Reading in the UK.

Views expressed in this article are the author's own. 

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