“My name is Margaret Thompson, I’m sixty-two years old, and I live in Birmingham. I have one son—Daniel. A few years ago, he married Emily. She seemed like a nice girl, from a decent family. As his mother, I tried not to interfere—they had their own family, their own rules, their own lives. At first, Emily and I only saw each other during holidays. I never forced myself on them or gave unsolicited advice. I was just happy my son was content.
When their first daughter, Sophie, was born, I offered to help. I remember how exhausted Emily looked, dark circles under her eyes. After my shifts, I’d go over and watch the baby so the new mum could rest. Emily never asked—I volunteered. It wasn’t a burden; she’s my granddaughter, my own flesh and blood.
Emily’s mother, mind you, never rushed to help. She’d visit once every few months, bring a box of chocolates, and leave within an hour. No nappies changed, no sleepless nights, no real responsibility. But I never said a word—didn’t want to cause a rift with Emily. I thought, *Maybe she can’t. Maybe it’s her health or work.* I bit my tongue.
When their second girl, Lily, arrived, things got even harder. Emily was struggling, especially late in her pregnancy. So I stepped in—every single day. I took Sophie to the park, cooked meals, washed dishes, ironed tiny clothes. And then… then they asked the impossible.
Emily was due back at work. They had no one to watch the girls. Their solution? They asked me to take unpaid leave—to “go on nanny duty,” as Emily called it—so I could look after the children while they worked. At first, I refused. But Daniel pleaded so much, my heart gave in. I agreed.
For an entire year, I cared for my granddaughters. Sometimes they’d drop them off sick—fevers, coughs. I stayed up nights, entertained them by day, fed them, walked them, laundered, dosed medicine. I spent my own money on groceries. Ran to the chemist myself. I was exhausted… but I kept going, believing *family helps family.*
Recently, I brought up repairs. My flat’s been needing work—peeling ceilings, wallpaper lifting. I asked Daniel and Emily for a little help—not the full amount, just something. Their reply?
*’We’ve got two kids, Mum. We can’t. Money’s tight.’*
I snapped.
*’I’ve spent a year helping you—feeding your children out of my own pocket! Can’t you help me now, just a little?’*
Then Emily looked at me, baffled, and said:
*’Why should I even thank you? They’re your grandkids. You’re supposed to do this.’*
It felt like a slap. I stood there, stunned. And Emily’s mother—the one who’s always absent—*she* isn’t expected to lift a finger? Why is no one holding *her* accountable?
That day, I made my decision. I won’t be their ‘default babysitter’ anymore. No more sick children dropped at my door. No more stews simmering, socks scrubbed, bedtime stories till midnight. I’m a grandmother, not a housemaid. I’m a person too—with needs, with a life.
Now, I see the girls only when *I* choose. Daniel did come later, apologising, saying Emily spoke in anger, didn’t mean it. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve had enough.
I’ll save for the repairs myself. Let them figure things out. Maybe one day Emily will learn gratitude isn’t weakness—it’s respect. And without respect, family is just a word.”
