We thought Grandma would help with the kids, but she tore our family apart.
This story was told to me by a close friend. Her family was a typical young couple with two small children—a five-year-old girl and a boy barely eighteen months old. Like many, they followed the usual script: Mum was on maternity leave, Dad worked. They lived modestly but happily.
Until money started running thin.
When their youngest turned eighteen months, my friend, Emily, decided to return to work. Her husband did his best, but his wages barely covered the essentials. A nanny was out of the question—too expensive. The only option seemed to be Grandma—her husband’s mother. The woman agreed without much fuss. Everyone assumed she’d enjoy the time with her grandchildren, and Emily could help support the family financially.
Emily had been raised to respect her elders, so it never crossed her mind that Grandma might struggle. After all, she’d raised her own son well enough.
But everything went horribly wrong.
Within weeks, Grandma began complaining—the children were spoiled, ill-behaved, never listened, made constant messes, refused to eat, and raced around the house. Every day, she’d call Emily, voice sharp with irritation, listing her grievances.
“They need discipline—you’ve raised them wrong!” she’d snap. “And let’s be honest, I’m not a nanny. I’ve got my own life, my own health to think about. I’m not obligated to watch them every single day.”
The breaking point came when she demanded a “scheduled midweek day off.” Emily was stunned. She and her husband had jobs, responsibilities—where were the kids supposed to go?
The criticism didn’t stop at the children. Grandma began reshaping their home to her liking. Towels were hung wrong, bedsheets unevenly tucked, pots misplaced on the wrong shelves. Once, she even rifled through their laundry, insisting things had to be done her way. At first, Emily and her husband endured it, but their patience was wearing thin.
When their eldest finally got a nursery school spot, Emily breathed a sigh of relief. Only their son remained, too young for a place. But the decision was already made—Grandma wouldn’t be their babysitter anymore. Emily cut contact to the bare minimum. Calls every few weeks, visits once a month, if that—and even then, neither side was enthusiastic.
Yes, Grandma had helped in a crisis. But the endless complaints, the pressure, the attempts to control everything—it shattered what little trust remained between them. Emily confessed she refused to let her children grow up under that weight. She’d been raised without constant lectures and believed in warmth and love, not shouting and disapproval.
From the outside, it might seem ungrateful. But when someone nitpicks every flaw, judges every move, and makes everything harder rather than easier—you just want to run. And never look back.
Sometimes I wonder—do grandparents forget? Grandchildren aren’t their children. They aren’t meant to raise them from scratch, day in, day out. They’re meant for love, for wisdom, for kindness—not for outdated discipline, shouting matches, and resentment.
So Emily chose: better to struggle on her own than invite back someone who tore the house down with her presence. And honestly? I understand.
What do you think—should grandparents be expected to help daily, or is it purely kindness, something no one should demand?
