**Diary Entry**
I thought my grandmother would help with the grandchildren, but instead, she tore our home apart.
This isn’t my story—it’s one shared by a close friend. Her family is a young couple with two small children: a five-year-old girl and a one-and-a-half-year-old boy. Like many, they followed the usual routine—mum on maternity leave, dad working. Life was modest but happy.
Until money got tight.
When their youngest turned one and a half, my friend, Emily, decided to return to work. Her husband did his best, but his salary barely covered essentials. A nanny was out of the question—far too expensive. The only option left was her mother-in-law, Margaret. She agreed without much fuss, and everyone assumed she’d enjoy the time with her grandchildren while Emily helped support the family.
Emily had been raised to respect her elders, so it never crossed her mind that Margaret wouldn’t manage. But things took a sharp turn.
Within weeks, Margaret began complaining—the children were unruly, spoiled, never listened, made constant messes, and worst of all, refused to eat properly. She’d call Emily daily, sighing about how exhausting it was.
*”They need a firm hand—you’ve raised them all wrong!”* Margaret would snap. *”I’m not a nanny, mind you. I’ve got my own life and health to worry about. I shouldn’t have to watch them every single day.”*
The breaking point came when she demanded *”a proper midweek day off.”* Emily was stunned—she and her husband had jobs, obligations, yet here was Margaret insisting on rest. Meanwhile, who would look after the children?
The criticism didn’t stop at the kids. Margaret began dictating how their home should run—towels hung *wrong*, bedding not *properly* tucked, pots on the wrong shelves. Once, she even sorted through their laundry, claiming *her* rules applied in *their* house. They tried to bear it, but patience wears thin.
When their eldest finally got a nursery place, Emily sighed in relief. Only their son remained, though he wouldn’t get a spot for another year. But the decision was already made—Margaret wouldn’t be their nanny anymore. Contact dwindled to a call every few weeks, and visits became rare, strained affairs.
Yes, Margaret helped when they were desperate. But the constant nitpicking, the pressure, the insistence on *correcting* everything—it shattered what little trust remained. Emily admitted she refused to let her children grow up under that weight. She hadn’t been raised by her grandmother’s scolding, and she wanted warmth and love for her kids, not shouting and disapproval.
From the outside, it might seem ungrateful. But when someone chips away at you daily—judging, belittling, making life harder rather than easier—all you want is to walk away. And never look back.
Sometimes I wonder if grandparents forget—grandchildren aren’t *their* children. They’re not meant to raise them from scratch, day in and day out. They should be there for love, wisdom, kindness—not the same strict lectures from decades past.
So Emily chose to manage on her own, no matter how hard. Better that than inviting back someone who poisons the air just by being there. And I understand her.
What do you think—should grandparents help daily, or is it purely kindness, never an obligation?
