“We raised your first granddaughter—now it’s your turn with the youngest!” I told my mother-in-law.
My daughter, Emily, has been battling serious health issues, and with her second baby due soon, I, Margaret Whitmore, am facing an impossible choice. My husband and I have cared for our eldest granddaughter, Sophie, for the past three years because Emily nearly died after her first birth. Now, my mother-in-law, Deborah Hartley, who swore she’d help, is backing out again, leaving us desperate. We live in a small town near Manchester, and the whole situation is breaking my heart.
When Sophie was born, we took her in straight from the hospital. Emily spent six months fighting for her life, and we couldn’t leave a newborn without care. Deborah made grand promises, but in three years, her “help” amounted to nothing. There was always an excuse—work, errands, holidays. If I hadn’t pushed, she wouldn’t have seen Sophie at all! I begged her to visit, and when she finally did, it was with all the enthusiasm of someone doing us a favour.
Now Emily’s expecting again, and doctors warn her health may spiral like last time. After her first birth, she spent five months in intensive care, and we barely saved her and Sophie. I nearly went grey when the maternity ward rang, asking who’d take the baby. Emily couldn’t even breastfeed, so despite my age and dodgy blood pressure, I took Sophie in. My husband and I aren’t young, and we’ve still got our youngest daughter at home—barely eighteen. But what choice did we have? I couldn’t abandon my granddaughter.
Sophie lives with us, visiting her parents on weekends. It works—Emily heals, and we manage. But another baby? I can’t do it. I’m too worn out for sleepless nights, colic, and teething tantrums. When Emily asked us to take the new baby, my stomach dropped. My health’s shaky, and Sophie alone had me at my wit’s end when her teeth came in. Back then, I’d phone Deborah, pleading for just one day’s respite. She’d show up, but return Sophie hours later, sighing like she’d climbed Everest.
Deborah’s eight years younger but acts like a jet-setting socialite—manicured, forever gallivanting to spas or city breaks. No husband, not that she wants one; she loves her freedom. After Sophie’s birth, she swore she’d pitch in, but in three years, she’s taken her twice—and only because I insisted. I’d be exhausted, my blood pressure soaring, and she’d bring Sophie back groaning, “Oh, I’m shattered!” As if I don’t lug a toddler around daily!
Now, with Emily in her third trimester, doctors fear a repeat. I’m panicked. I haven’t the strength for another infant, and Sophie’s already a handful. I told Deborah plainly: “We raised Sophie—your turn now.” But she rattled off excuses: her pedigree cats, her posh furniture, her packed calendar. She just doesn’t fancy nappies and night feeds. She doesn’t even pretend to care. Where does that leave the baby? It’s not like we can drop it at the charity shop!
My heart’s in tatters. Emily’s fighting for her life, and I don’t know how to save us. Deborah lives for herself, blind to our struggles. I’ve begged her to take the baby for six months, but she waves me off like a bothersome wasp. Sophie’s our joy, but I can’t relive those early years. The thought of a newborn with no one to hold it chokes me. Deborah vowed to be there, but her promises are empty. How do I make her see this is her flesh and blood? If she doesn’t step up, I fear our family will crack under the weight—and that thought crushes me.
