**Monday, 12th June**
I walked the familiar path to the nursery—the same one I’d taken for years to pick up my darling Veronica. Usually, she’d spot me first and come running, shrieking, “Gran!” before throwing herself into my arms. But today was different. I saw her from a distance: she took a step forward, her eyes lighting up—until the nursery teacher stopped her, whispering something. Veronica’s shoulders slumped, and she turned away, retreating to a corner with the toys. The teacher met me with a polite but pitying tone.
“I’m sorry, but her mother left strict instructions. Only she or her father can collect her now. No one else.”
I stood frozen, as if roots had grown through my feet into the pavement. It felt like a slap. How? Why? I’m not a stranger—I’m her grandmother. I’ve always been there, not for thanks, but out of love.
My daughter Emily married five years ago. Two years later, Veronica arrived—our little sunshine. I didn’t just help; I became part of their daily rhythm: feeding, walking, bedtime stories, nursery runs. Especially when Emily and her husband were drowning in work. He often stayed late; she’d arrive just before closing—Veronica usually the last child waiting, save for a little boy whose grandparents lived in Brighton. But I was there. Always there.
This heartache started over something as small as a quarrel during Saturday tea. I’d brought scones and a new doll for Veronica when I noticed Emily’s changed walk—the subtle roundness of her stomach. My suspicions were right: she was expecting again. And as her mother, I couldn’t stay silent.
“Emily, love, are you sure now’s the time? With your finances as they are?”
She replied calmly, “Yes. We’re ready. The age gap will be just right.”
Then it spiralled. I reminded her about the mortgage, how they were treading carefully at work to avoid redundancies, how they barely scraped by paycheck to paycheck. I admitted I didn’t know how I’d manage two grandchildren on my own.
Emily snapped. Her husband walked out, avoiding the row, while she let loose: “We never asked for your help! You offered—you insisted! And now you throw it back at us? Thanks, Mum, but we’ll manage without you.”
And they have. But at what cost? Veronica’s sensitive, shy—struggles at nursery. Toys snatched from her, left out of games, shoved aside. Now, instead of being collected after nap time, she’s left till last, stuck in the after-hours group with older kids—noise, chaos, tears. She clings to the teacher, waiting. And I can’t go to her. I’ve been forbidden.
I called Emily, humbled, pleading: “Enough! Families argue, don’t they?” But her voice was ice.
“She’ll stay till seven. The staff are paid to handle it. Maybe she’ll learn to cope—she’s too clingy anyway. Always running to you…”
But I know the truth. Every morning, Veronica cries, gripping her mother’s hand. Every evening, she stares out the window, searching for me. And I stand across the street, a stranger now. My heart aches with helplessness.
One careless word—and just like that, I’m no longer Granny. Just a woman who once told bedtime stories, braided hair, kissed foreheads. Now I’m shut out. Silence truly is golden. I should have remembered that.
