Sometimes it feels like I’m not living in reality but in some absurd theatre play. My son, a grown man, acts like a boy again, letting others make decisions for him. And my daughter-in-law—she’s the director of this whole production, orchestrating their life together, while I stand backstage, wallet in hand, always ready to step in. But my patience wears thinner by the day, and the demands on me only grow.
They’ve lived together from the start, even before marriage. At first, my son stayed with me in my home, while his then-girlfriend rented a room with a friend. When marriage came up, they got a flat together. I didn’t interfere—let them build their life as they saw fit. I helped with money when they asked. We’re not rolling in it, but I understood—they’re young, just starting out. I’ve been there myself.
But what I can’t wrap my head around is their plan now—right now—to have a child. No stable jobs, no home of their own, no savings. Yet here they are, making grand declarations: *The baby won’t wait, time’s running out, she can’t have kids after thirty, it’ll all work out.* And, as always, my son nods along without a hint of doubt. I look at him and barely recognise him. Where’s your common sense, son? Where’s your backbone? Why do you let someone else steer your life again?
He does work, but it’s the kind of job where paychecks come late or vanish without warning. He’s changed jobs at least five times, always blaming something—a bad boss, a failing company. My daughter-in-law barely earns a pittance. And yet they’ve already moved flats multiple times. Just the two of them—that’s manageable. But with a baby in tow? The midnight cries, the packing, the stress—who can handle that?
I’ve tried reasoning with them. *Live a little, get your footing, save up, settle down—then think about children.* No. The decision’s made. She *needs* it now. And my son, like he’s under a spell—*”Sure, let’s do it.”* So now I must brace myself to be not just a grandmother, but a second mother to this child? Helping is one thing—I get that. But I’m not getting any younger, and my bank account isn’t bottomless.
What if they can’t manage? What if they can’t pay rent or afford nappies and formula after a few months? Who’ll be left holding the bag? Me, of course. Because I could never turn my back on my own son and grandchild. And that terrifies me. I’m already stretched thin—my own bills, my health, my worries. I’m not made of steel.
And my daughter-in-law? She just laughs it off—*”We’ll manage somehow.”* As if it’s a weekend outing, not the start of a whole new life. Meanwhile, my stomach knots—why won’t they *think*, weigh the costs, count the pennies?
I’m no enemy to children. I’d love a grandchild—to cradle, teach, read stories to. But I want that child to grow up in love, security, stability. Not in chaos and debt. I want them to have everything—from a proper cot to warm clothes. To grow up knowing Mum and Dad have it under control. Not feeling like they’re a burden propped up by Grandma.
I look at them and think—if they just waited a few years, things could be different. Land better jobs, save up, rent a decent place—maybe even get a mortgage. Isn’t it possible to live wisely, not recklessly? But in this family, they’d rather leap first and pray for a parachute later. And someone else always ends up cleaning up the mess.
I stay quiet. Any words from me will go in one ear and out the other. But deep down, I’m already preparing—for sleepless nights, for another financial strain, for responsibility I never asked for but will likely carry. Because when children enter the picture, the ones who sacrifice are always the elders. Because love isn’t just joy—it’s sacrifice. And all I can hope is that someone in this chain will finally grow up.
