My daughter and son-in-law have left their children with me for the entire school break, and here I am, on my modest pension, expected to feed and entertain them.
Modern children and grandchildren seem so self-centered—demanding attention, care, and time, yet giving nothing in return but indifference and complaints. What kind of consumer attitude towards seniors is this? As if we, the elderly, have no lives or desires of our own—just sit with the grandkids like some kind of maid. And if I ask for help, suddenly, everyone is too busy, treating me as though I’m a stranger.
My daughter has two sons—the eldest is 12 and the youngest is 4. I live in a small village in the countryside, and all I have is a 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 these boys are growing up to be real slackers. They don’t clean up after themselves, not even making the beds—everything’s left like a tornado swept through. And they’re picky eaters, turning their noses up at my cooking and demanding junk food. It’s just unbearable!
When the grandchildren were little, I helped my daughter all the time—caring for them, shopping, babysitting. But for the last five years, since retiring, I’ve tried to step back from the role of perpetual nanny. This year, before the autumn break, I sighed with relief: I checked the calendar and realized there wouldn’t be any long weekends in early November. So, I figured my daughter and her husband wouldn’t go anywhere, and I could enjoy some peace. How wrong I was!
On Sunday, right before the last week of October, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find my daughter, Emma, standing there with her two sons. Without even a proper greeting, she blurted out:
“Mum, hello! Take the grandkids, their break has started!”
I was stunned.
“Emma, why didn’t you warn me? What kind of surprise is this?”
“Because if I did, you’d think of a hundred excuses not to take them!” she snapped, pulling the coats off the boys. “We’re heading to a spa for a week; I can’t take it anymore, I’m exhausted!”
“But what about work? There aren’t any extra holidays this year!” I tried to make sense of it, feeling panic rising inside.
“We took annual leave, and Alex took three unpaid days. Mum, we don’t have time to explain, we’re running late!” she said, giving me a peck on the cheek before darting out the door, leaving me with two suitcases and the kids.
It didn’t take five minutes for the house to turn to chaos. The TV was blaring, coats and shoes were strewn across the hall, and the boys were tearing around like a hurricane. I tried to get them to tidy up, at least put their clothes away, but they ignored me, as if I were invisible. They refused to eat my soup, screwed up their faces, and claimed their mum had promised them pizza. That was the last straw for me.
I grabbed the phone and called Emma:
“Your kids are asking for pizza! I’m not buying them that!”
“I’ve already ordered delivery,” she shrugged it off, clearly annoyed. “Mum, they won’t eat your porridge, and it’s always a hassle. Take them out, entertain them, have a proper meal! You always complain they drain you at home!”
“And how am I supposed to entertain them? On my pension?” I protested, feeling my face flush with anger.
“What else do you spend it on? They’re your grandchildren, not strangers! I can’t believe you’d say such a thing!” she scoffed and hung up.
And that was that! Left alone with this nightmare. I worked my whole life for my only daughter—worked two jobs, saved every penny to give her a good life. And now, in my twilight years, this is the “thank you” I get! I’m shaking with resentment, with powerlessness, with the injustice of it all.
I love my grandchildren, deeply. But they tire me out, and I tire them out—the age gap is huge, and I’m not young enough to keep up with them all day. Yet my daughter seems to think I’m her unpaid help, that my pension and my time are hers and her children’s by right, and my only duty is to serve them. Selfish, utterly selfish! So here I sit, looking at this mess, listening to their screams, and wondering: Is this really my retirement? Is this all I have to look forward to?
