When I finally found a love life of my own, my daughter called me mad and forbade me from seeing my granddaughter.
All my life I had devoted to my daughter, and later—to my granddaughter. But it seemed my family had forgotten that I, too, had a right to happiness beyond just serving them. I married quite young, at twenty-one. My husband, Edward, was a quiet, hardworking man, the kind who never stopped labouring. One day, he was offered a two-week job—supposedly good extra money, transporting goods to another county.
He never returned. To this day, I don’t know what happened on that trip. One morning, I got a call telling me Edward was gone. I was left alone with a two-year-old, completely isolated. His parents had passed long before, and mine lived in another town. I had no idea how we would survive or how I would provide for my child.
The only blessing was that Edward’s tiny flat had passed to us. Without it, I don’t know how we would have managed. I was a teacher by training, and at first, I tried tutoring from home, but trying to teach while a toddler ran around screaming was impossible.
I couldn’t take a proper job because of little Charlotte. What was I supposed to do—leave a two-year-old alone all day? One afternoon, my mother saw my despair and took Charlotte back with her. For nearly two years, my daughter lived with her grandparents while I worked myself ragged—teaching at school, taking extra shifts, tutoring privately.
On weekends, I’d visit Charlotte. Every goodbye shattered my heart all over again. Then came nursery, and I feared I’d be stuck at home with sick days, but thankfully, she was strong and rarely fell ill. Eventually, it was just the two of us again. School came next, then university.
I worked myself to the bone to buy her the best shoes, the nicest dress, the smartest blouse. I hardly ever had just one job—always two, sometimes three. But when Charlotte finally graduated and started working, I felt relief for the first time. And then, shock—because now, suddenly, I was no longer needed.
No more scrambling for extra work. My body was already failing, and the only companion I had left was my cat, Whiskers. My daughter visited on weekends, but entertaining a lonely mother all day clearly wasn’t part of her plans. I felt discarded. Everything changed when my granddaughter, Emily, was born.
A few months before her arrival, I moved in with Charlotte and her husband, Michael. Shopping, cleaning, hospital bags—it all fell to me. And when Charlotte returned to work, I took over Emily’s care completely. Not that I minded—on the contrary, I needed to feel useful again.
This year, Emily started school. After classes, I’d pick her up, feed her, help with homework, take her to the park or after-school clubs. And in that park, I met Henry. He, too, was looking after his granddaughter. We got talking. Henry had been widowed young, just like me, and now helped his daughter raise her little one.
When I first knew Henry, I didn’t dare hope for anything. In all the years since my husband’s death, I had never been on a single date, never gone out for dinner. First, because of my child, then because of work. After Emily was born, I proudly called myself “Grandma.” Did grandmas even have suitors? Apparently, they did. Henry made me remember I was still a woman.
The first message from him, suggesting we meet—just us, no children—left me stunned. With him, a new life began. We went to the cinema, the theatre, festivals, exhibitions. I remembered what it was like to truly live.
But my daughter didn’t take it well. It started with a simple call one Saturday morning:
“Mum, we’re dropping Emily off for the weekend. You’ll look after her, right?”
“Sorry, love, I’ve already got plans. We’re out of town. Next time, give me a bit more notice—I’ll make sure I’m free.”
Charlotte scoffed and hung up. By Monday, Henry and I were home. I felt lighter, full of energy. Even Emily noticed the spark in my eyes. All was calm until Friday, when the phone rang again.
“Friends invited us over. Can you take Emily?”
“We agreed you’d let me know in advance. I’ve made plans already.”
“Off with Henry again, are you? He’s completely addled your brain!” she snapped.
“Charlotte, what is this?” I tried to calm her.
“You’ve forgotten all about Emily! You always said you didn’t need happiness of your own. What’s changed?”
“Yes, it has! I’m alive again. I wish you could understand—woman to woman.”
“And how is Emily supposed to understand? You’ve traded her for some bloke!”
“What are you on about? I’m still with her most of the time! Just forget I said anything—let’s move on.”
“*I* should forget? You’re the one who’s lost it. I won’t leave Emily with you anymore. Sort yourself out first—then we’ll talk.” And with that, she hung up.
I broke down then—heaving sobs, shaking with pain. After everything I’d sacrificed, after a lifetime spent for them, I was cast aside just like that. For daring to finally let myself be happy.
I hope Charlotte comes around. That she’ll call. That she’ll understand. Because I can’t imagine life without her—or without Emily.
Perhaps the hardest lesson is that love shouldn’t be a prison—and sometimes those we give the most to are the first to resent our freedom.
