“Why should I even thank you? They’re your grandkids, after all!” — my daughter-in-law ruined every bit of goodwill we had.
My name’s Margaret Thompson, I’m 62, and I live in Manchester. I’ve got one son, Oliver. A few years back, he married Emily. She seemed nice enough, from a decent family. As his mum, I made sure not to interfere—they’ve got their own life, their own rules. At first, I only saw Emily at holidays. I never pushed myself on them or gave unsolicited advice. I was just happy my son was happy.
When their first daughter, Lily, was born, I offered to help straight away. I remember how exhausted Emily looked, dark circles under her eyes. After my shifts, I’d go over and look after the baby so she could catch a break. Emily never asked—I volunteered. It wasn’t a bother. After all, she’s my granddaughter, my own flesh and blood.
Emily’s mum, mind you, never lifted a finger. She’d drop by once in a blue moon with a box of chocolates and leave within the hour. No nappies, no sleepless nights, no real help. But I never said a word—didn’t want to cause trouble. Maybe she couldn’t manage, I thought. Maybe her health or job kept her busy. I bit my tongue.
When their second girl, Sophie, came along, things got even harder. Emily was struggling, especially toward the end of her pregnancy. So I was over there every single day—taking Lily out, cooking, doing the washing, ironing tiny clothes. And then… then they asked the impossible.
Emily’s maternity leave was ending, and they had no one to watch the kids. Guess what they suggested? That I take unpaid leave from *my* job—”go on nanny duty,” Emily called it—so I could look after them *full-time* while they worked. At first, I said no. But Oliver begged, and my heart gave in. So I agreed.
For a whole *year*, I was with those girls. Sick with fevers, coughing all night—I was the one up with them, feeding them, taking them to the park, doing their laundry, running to the chemist. I even paid for groceries out of my own pocket. I *ached* with exhaustion… but I kept going, because that’s what family does, right?
Then, not long ago, I mentioned my flat needed some work—peeling ceilings, wallpaper coming loose. I asked Oliver and Emily if they could chip in a bit, not the whole lot, just something. And do you know what they said?
*”We’ve got two kids, Mum. We can’t afford it.”*
That’s when I snapped.
“I’ve been helping you all year—feeding your kids on *my* dime! Couldn’t you at least help me now?”
Emily just stared at me like I’d lost the plot and said,
*”Why should I even thank you for that? They’re your grandkids. You’re *supposed* to do it!”*
It felt like a slap. I stood there, stunned. And what about Emily’s mum, the one who’s *never* lifted a finger? Why isn’t *she* getting any grief for not helping?
That was the day I decided. No more being their default babysitter. No more looking after sick kids, no more cooking *their* meals or washing *their* laundry or reading bedtime stories till midnight. I’m their *grandmother*, not their housekeeper. I’ve got needs too.
Now, I see the girls only when *I* want to. Oliver came round later, apologised, said Emily didn’t mean it, that she was just stressed. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve had enough.
I’ll save up for the repairs myself. Let *them* figure things out now. And maybe, just maybe, Emily will learn one day that gratitude isn’t weakness—it’s respect. And without that, you’ve got no family at all.
