“We raised your first granddaughter, now it’s your turn with the younger one!” I snapped at my mother-in-law.
My daughter, Emily, has serious health issues, and now, with her second pregnancy looming, I’m faced with an unbearable choice. My husband and I have been raising our eldest granddaughter, Sophie, for three years because Emily nearly died after giving birth the first time. And now my mother-in-law, Margaret, who swore she’d help, is turning her back on us again, leaving us desperate. We live in a small town near Manchester, and this whole situation is tearing me apart.
When Sophie was born, we took her in right after the hospital. Emily spent six months fighting for her life, and we couldn’t leave a newborn without care. Margaret promised she’d pitch in, but three years later, her so-called help has been nothing but empty words. She always had excuses—work, errands, holidays. If I hadn’t pushed, she wouldn’t have seen Sophie at all! I begged her to come over, and only then would she bother showing up, but never for long, and with this air like she was doing us some huge favor.
Now Emily’s expecting again, and the doctors have warned us—her health could take the same turn. After the first birth, she spent five months in hospital, and we barely got her and Sophie through it. I nearly went grey when the midwife called asking who’d take the baby. Emily couldn’t even breastfeed, and despite my age and high blood pressure, I took Sophie in. My husband and I aren’t young anymore, and we’ve still got our youngest daughter at home, barely eighteen. But there was no choice—I couldn’t abandon my granddaughter.
Sophie lives with us, only visiting her parents on weekends. It works for everyone—Emily’s recovering, and we manage with our eldest. But a newborn? I just can’t do it again. I don’t have the strength for sleepless nights, crying, colic. When Emily asked us to take the second baby, my stomach dropped. My blood pressure’s already all over the place, and Sophie, especially when she was teething, wore me down to nothing with her screams. I called Margaret then, pleading for her to take Sophie for just *one* day. She’d come, but hand her back after a few hours, acting like she’d moved mountains.
Margaret’s eight years younger than me but acts like some glamorous socialite. Always polished, always jetting off—spa weekends, city breaks. No men in her life, not that she needs them—she loves her freedom. After Sophie was born, she swore she’d help, but in three years, she’s only had her twice—and that was because *I* pushed for it. I’d be exhausted, my blood pressure spiking, and she’d return Sophie complaining, “Oh, I’m shattered!” As if I wasn’t carrying her every single day.
Now, with Emily in her third trimester, the doctors say it could be like the first birth all over again. I’m panicking. I can’t manage another baby—Sophie’s enough on her own. I told Margaret straight: *”We raised Sophie, now it’s your turn.”* But instantly, she had a hundred excuses—her cats, her fancy furniture, she’s never home, work, holidays. She just doesn’t want the hassle. She doesn’t even try to hide that grandchildren are a nuisance. I’m at my wits’ end—what do we *do* with this baby? Hand it over to social services?
My heart’s breaking. Emily’s fighting for her life, and I don’t know how to save our family. Margaret lives for herself, and she couldn’t care less about our struggles. I begged her to take the baby for just six months, but she brushes me off like a fly. Sophie’s our joy, but I can’t go through it again. The thought of a baby left with no one—it chokes me up. Margaret swore she’d be there, but her words mean nothing. I don’t know how to make her see—this is *her* blood, *her* family. If she doesn’t step up, I’m terrified we’ll collapse under the weight of it. And that fear? It’s crushing me.
