My daughter and son-in-law have left their children with me for the entire holiday. And here I am, on my modest pension, expected to feed and entertain them.
Modern kids and grandkids seem so self-centered—they crave attention, care, time, and give nothing in return besides indifference and complaints. What’s this consumer attitude toward the elderly? As if we older folks don’t have our own lives, our own desires, and are just supposed to babysit grandkids like servants. And the moment I ask for help, everyone is suddenly “busy,” as if I’m a stranger.
My daughter has two sons—the eldest is 12 and the youngest is 4. I live in a small village near Norwich, and all I have is my modest pension and the peace and quiet I cherish. I don’t know how my daughter and her husband are raising them or what’s happening at school, but the boys are growing up to be real slackers. They don’t clean up after themselves, not even making their beds—it’s like a hurricane hit. They also turn up their noses at my cooking, demanding all sorts of junk food. It feels like a punishment!
When the grandchildren were little, I did my utmost to help my daughter—I took care of them, helped around, and ran errands. But for the last five years, I’ve been retired, and since then, I’ve been trying to step away from being a perpetual nanny. This year, before the autumn break, I sighed in relief: I checked the calendar and realized there wouldn’t be any long weekends in early November. So, I thought, my daughter and her husband won’t be going anywhere, and I could have a peaceful time. How wrong I was!
On Sunday, right before the last week of October, there was a knock on the door. I opened it, and there was my daughter, Emma, with her two sons. Without even a proper greeting, she blurted out:
“Mum, hello! Here are the grandkids, the holidays have started!”
I was stunned.
“Emma, why didn’t you give me a heads-up? What’s with the surprise?”
“If I tell you, you’ll come up with a thousand excuses not to take them!” she retorted, pulling the boys’ jackets off. “We’re going to a retreat for a week, I’m worn out!”
“Wait, what about work? There are no extra holidays this year!” I tried to make sense of it all, feeling panic rising inside me.
“We have vacation days; Tom took three unpaid leave days. Mum, no time to explain, we’re running late!” she said, pecked me on the cheek, and dashed out the door, leaving me with two suitcases and the kids.
Within five minutes, the house was in chaos. The TV was blaring, jackets and shoes were thrown across the hallway, and the boys were storming around like a whirlwind. I tried to restore order, make them at least put away their clothes, but they ignored me as if I were invisible. They refused to eat my soup, grimacing and demanding the pizza their mum promised. That’s when my patience snapped.
I grabbed the phone and called Emma:
“Your kids are asking for pizza! I’m not buying them that!”
“I already ordered you a delivery,” she responded dismissively, clearly irritated. “Mum, they won’t eat your porridge, it’s always a tussle. Take them out, have some fun, eat properly! You’re always saying how exhausting they are at home!”
“And with what money am I supposed to entertain them? From my pension?” I protested, feeling my blood boil.
“What else are you spending it on? They’re your grandkids, not strangers! I can’t believe you said that!” she snapped and hung up.
And that’s it! I was left alone with this nightmare. My whole life, I worked myself to the bone for my only daughter—held down multiple jobs, saved up every penny just to give her a good life. And now, in my old age, this is the “thank you” I receive! I’m shaking from the injustice, the frustration.
I love my grandsons—I really do, with all my heart. But they get tired of me, and I get worn out by them—the age gap is huge, and I’m not young enough to keep up with them all day. And my daughter treats me like free help, thinking my pension and my time belong to her and her children. They have the rights, and I have only responsibilities. Selfish, pure and simple! And I sit there, staring at this mess, listening to the racket, and wonder: is this what my old age is meant to be? Is this all I’ve earned for myself?
