**”We Thought Grandma Would Help with the Kids, but She Destroyed Our Home”**
This story was shared with me by a close friend. Her family was a young couple with two little ones—a five-year-old girl and a one-and-a-half-year-old boy. Like many, they followed the usual script: mum on maternity leave, dad at work. They lived modestly but happily.
Until money started running tight.
When their youngest turned one and a half, my friend, Emily, decided to return to work. Her husband tried his best, but his salary barely covered the essentials. A nanny was out of the question—far too expensive. The only option was Grandma—her mother-in-law, Margaret. She agreed without much fuss. Everyone assumed she’d love looking after the grandkids while Emily helped keep the family afloat.
Emily had been raised to respect her elders, so it never crossed her mind that Margaret wouldn’t manage. After all, she’d raised her own son just fine.
But things went very differently.
After a few weeks, Margaret began complaining—the kids were unruly, spoiled, never listened, made constant messes, and worst of all, they barely ate and tore through the house like tiny hurricanes. Daily, she’d ring Emily to moan about how exhausting it all was.
*”They need discipline—you’ve raised them all wrong!”* Margaret would snap. *”I’m sorry, but I’m not a babysitter. I’ve got my own life and health to consider. I shouldn’t have to do this every day.”*
The breaking point? She demanded a *”proper midweek day off.”* Emily was floored. She and her husband had jobs, obligations—where were the kids supposed to go?
But the criticism wasn’t just for the children. Margaret began imposing her own rules in their home. The towels were hung *wrong*. The duvets weren’t *neatly tucked*. The pots were on the *wrong shelves*. One day, she even reorganised their laundry, insisting *her* way was the only way. At first, Emily and her husband bit their tongues, but soon, their patience wore thin.
When their eldest finally got a nursery spot, Emily breathed a sigh of relief. Only the little one remained, and with no nursery place in sight, they made a firm decision—Margaret wouldn’t be babysitting anymore. Emily reduced contact to the bare minimum: a call every few weeks, visits maybe once a month, neither side particularly enthused.
Sure, Margaret had helped in a pinch. But the constant nitpicking, the pressure, the relentless *”I know best”* attitude—it snapped whatever fragile trust remained. Emily admitted she didn’t want her kids growing up under that weight. She hadn’t been raised with endless scolding, and she believed children needed warmth and love, not shouting and disapproval.
From the outside, it might seem ungrateful. But when someone’s dripping criticism in your ear every day, judging every move while making life harder—well, you’d want to run, too. And never look back.
Sometimes I think grandparents forget—grandchildren aren’t *their* children. Their role isn’t full-time parenting, not the daily grind of discipline. They’re there for love, wisdom, and cuddles—not shouting like it’s the 1980s all over again.
So Emily decided: better to struggle on her own than let someone toxic back into their home. And honestly? I get it.
What do you think—should grandparents help daily, or is it purely a kindness, never an obligation?
