We thought Grandma would help with the grandchildren, but she tore our home apart.
This tale was shared with me by a dear friend. Her family was a young couple with two small children—a five-year-old girl and a boy just eighteen months old. Like many, they followed the usual script: the mother was on maternity leave, the father worked. They lived modestly but happily.
Until their finances began to fray at the edges.
When their youngest turned eighteen months, my friend, Emily, decided to return to work. Her husband, William, did his best, but his earnings barely covered the essentials. A nanny was out of the question—far too costly. The only option seemed to be his mother. The woman agreed without much fuss. Everyone assumed she’d find joy in caring for the children while Emily helped support the family.
Emily had been raised to respect her elders, and it never crossed her mind that Gran might struggle—after all, she’d raised William well enough.
But things took a turn for the worse.
After a few weeks, Gran began airing grievances: the children, she claimed, were spoilt, ill-mannered, and disobedient, forever making a mess, refusing to eat, and tearing through the house. Daily, she rang Emily to complain about the ordeal.
“They need your discipline—you’ve raised them wrong!” Gran would snap. “I’m not a nursemaid. I’ve my own affairs and my own health. I shouldn’t have to mind them every single day.”
The tipping point came when she demanded “a proper midweek rest day.” Emily was stunned—both she and William had jobs, obligations, yet here was Gran insisting on time off. Who would mind the children? No one seemed to care.
Her criticisms didn’t stop at the children. She began imposing her own rules in their home, nitpicking towel placements, unevenly tucked blankets, pots on the wrong shelves. Once, she even rifled through their laundry, declaring things ought to be done her way. At first, Emily and William bore it silently, but their patience wore thin.
When their eldest was finally accepted into nursery, Emily breathed a sigh of relief. Only the boy remained, unlikely to secure a place for another year. But their decision was made—Gran would no longer act as nanny. Emily cut contact to a minimum: a call once a fortnight, visits with the grandchildren no more than monthly, and even then, with little enthusiasm on either side.
Yes, Gran had helped in a pinch, but her constant carping, pressure, and efforts to “correct everyone and everything” frayed the fragile thread of trust between them. Emily confessed she wouldn’t raise her children under that weight. She’d grown up without a grandmother’s lectures and believed childhood should be warmth and love, not scolding and disapproval.
From the outside, it might seem ungrateful. But when someone needles you daily, judges every trifle, and makes things harder instead of easier—it makes you want to flee and never look back.
Sometimes I think grandparents forget: grandchildren are not their children. They’re not obliged to raise them from scratch, day in and day out. They’re meant for love, for kind words, for affection—not for barking orders as though it were still the 1980s.
So Emily chose: better to struggle alone than let someone who poisons the air back into their home. And I understand.
What do you think—should grandparents be expected to help daily, or is it purely kindness, never to be demanded?
