**Diary Entry – June 12th**
My name is Margaret Clarke. I’m sixty-two years old and live in Manchester. I have one son, Edward. A few years back, he married a girl named Charlotte—seemed pleasant enough, from a decent family. As his mother, I made sure not to interfere. They had their own life, their own rules. At first, we only saw each other on holidays. I never overstepped, never offered advice unless asked. Just glad my boy was happy.
When their first daughter, Emily, was born, I offered to help. Charlotte looked exhausted, dark circles under her eyes. After my shifts, I’d come over and mind the baby so she could rest. She never had to ask—I volunteered. It was no trouble. She’s my granddaughter, my own flesh and blood.
Charlotte’s mum, mind you, never lifted a finger. She’d drop by every few months with a box of biscuits, stay an hour, then leave. No nappies, no sleepless nights, no real help. But I bit my tongue—didn’t want to stir trouble. Maybe she had her reasons, I thought. Health, work, who knows? I let it go.
When their second girl, Sophie, came along, things got harder. Charlotte was overwhelmed, especially toward the end of her pregnancy. So I was there every day—taking Emily to the park, cooking, washing dishes, ironing tiny clothes. Then… then they asked the impossible.
Charlotte was due back at work. They had no one to watch the girls. Their solution? Asked me to take unpaid leave—”go on nanny duty,” as Charlotte put it—so I could mind the children while they worked. I refused at first. But Edward pleaded until my heart gave in. I said yes.
A full year, I looked after those girls. Some days, they’d drop them off sick—fevers, coughs. Nights without sleep, days of feeding, entertaining, washing, doctoring. I spent my own money on groceries, ran to the chemist myself. I was worn to the bone… but I kept going. Family helps family, or so I thought.
Recently, I mentioned needing repairs. My flat’s falling apart—peeling ceiling, wallpaper coming loose. Asked Edward and Charlotte if they could chip in, just a bit. Their reply?
*”We’ve got two kids, Mum. We’re strapped as it is.”*
That’s when I snapped.
*”I’ve helped you all year, fed your children out of my own pocket! Can’t you spare anything?”*
Charlotte stared at me like I’d lost the plot and said,
*”Why should I thank you? They’re your grandkids. You’re supposed to do it.”*
Felt like a slap. I stood there, stunned. And what about Charlotte’s mum—the one who’s never lifted a finger? Why isn’t *she* expected to help?
That day, I decided. No more free nannying. No more sick kids dumped on me. No more cooking, washing, or bedtime stories till midnight. I’m their grandmother, not the hired help. I’ve got my own needs too.
Now, I see the girls when *I* choose. Edward came later, apologising, saying Charlotte didn’t mean it, that she was stressed. Doesn’t matter. I’m done.
I’ll save up for the repairs myself. Let them figure it out. Maybe one day Charlotte will learn gratitude isn’t weakness—it’s respect. And without respect, family’s just a word.
