I once dreamed that retirement would finally be my time — to read, knit, stroll through the park, and enjoy the things I never had time for. But those dreams shattered with the ring of a doorbell.
It was a Sunday, right before the fall break. At the door stood my daughter, Emily, with her two sons — 12-year-old Jake and 4-year-old Noah. No warning, no prior discussion.
“Mom, take the kids. We’re going to a wellness retreat with Daniel. We’re exhausted!” she said while helping the boys take off their jackets.
“But I thought there wasn’t supposed to be a school break now! And what about work?” I asked, trying to make sense of it.
“Daniel took three days off. Mom, we’re in a rush!” And just like that — they were gone.
Within minutes, the house was filled with blaring TV noise, and clothes were scattered everywhere. I tried to restore order — in vain. They refused to eat the soup I made because, apparently, their mom had promised them pizza. I called Emily, letting her know her boys were demanding a restaurant-level experience.
“I’ll order them pizza. They won’t eat your porridge — every time it turns into a fight! Take them out somewhere, have fun! You’re always saying they wear you out at home!” she snapped.
“And with what money? My pension?” I was stunned.
“They’re your grandkids, not strangers! I can’t believe you’re saying this!” she huffed and hung up.
For a whole week, I cooked, cleaned, pleaded, and endured. I love my grandsons — I truly do. But I can no longer be the “free babysitter.” The age gap and the lack of respect from my children make this incredibly hard.
I gave everything so that my daughter could grow up happy. And now, I get nothing but reproaches in return. Don’t we, older people, deserve peace? Why does everyone assume our lives no longer matter?
Well, I won’t stay silent any longer.
