Two weeks I looked after my grandson, and instead of thanks, I got a row—my daughter-in-law told me I did everything wrong.
It all started late one evening. It was past ten when the phone rang. My son’s name flashed on the screen. His voice shook: *”Mum, they’ve taken Alice to hospital—bad pains, the doctors didn’t want to take chances. I’m going with her, but we’ve got no one to watch Alfie. You’re the only one who can help…”* Half an hour later, my son was at the doorstep with a travel cot, bags, and his eighteen-month-old boy. His eyes were full of worry and pleading. Of course I couldn’t say no, even though things between me and Alice, his wife, have never been exactly warm.
Ever since Alfie was born, I’ve felt like an outsider in their lives. How many times did I offer to help—cooking, babysitting, just giving them a break? The answer was always, *”Thanks, but we’ve got this.”* So I backed off. But it broke my heart—I’m his grandmother, I want to be part of his life. The last time I saw Alfie was back in spring. Then Alice completely shut me out. During the pandemic, she went full germaphobe—everything bleached, elbows on door handles, no visitors at all.
And now, when disaster struck, they finally let me in. My son left me with a whole arsenal—baby food, creams, instructions, spare clothes, even a yoga ball. *”Alice rocks Alfie to sleep on this—he won’t settle without it,”* he said quickly. I nodded, but privately thought, *”Not in my house. He’ll learn to sleep on his own.”* After seeing him off to the hospital, I rang my boss and took two weeks’ leave. I’ve handled worse.
The first night was rough, no question. Alfie screamed so loudly the neighbours knocked to check everything was alright. I apologised, explained the situation—they shrugged and left. But by the third night, he was going down easier. I’d stroke his back, slow and steady, and he’d drift off under my hand like magic.
Five days in, Alice called. She grilled me—what was he eating? How was he sleeping? What colour were his nappies? I answered calmly, told her everything was fine, that he was happily eating my homemade veg and fruit purées—I make them myself, never trust the jars. She went silent. Couldn’t believe he’d sleep without the yoga ball, without their whole routine.
Two weeks passed. I lived for that little boy, poured everything into him. My arms remembered how to hold a baby, my heart beat with his breaths. I was exhausted, yes—but happy. Finally, I felt like a grandma.
When Alice came home, I handed Alfie over, packed up his things neatly. No thank-you, not even a smile. Just a dirty look and: *”You did it all wrong.”*
*”Sorry?”* I said, stunned.
*”You ruined his routine. Now he screams at night, and your purées gave him a rash. You didn’t listen. I told you to stick to the plan. Why couldn’t you just follow our way?”*
I was floored. Two weeks, not a single complaint—and now this? Instead of gratitude, I got shouted at. It hurt. I didn’t invite myself over—I stepped up when they needed me. And all I got was *”you ruined everything.”*
Now I’m banned from seeing Alfie. Alice says she doesn’t trust me. I only get glimpses of him in photos my son posts online. He stays quiet, doesn’t get involved. And I don’t push. But inside? It shreds me.
I don’t think I did anything wrong. I raised my son without yoga balls or schedules, and he turned out brilliant. Now it’s all timetables, grams of this and that, following the manual. Where’s the love in that?
I don’t know who’s right or wrong. I just know I’m his grandma, and I love him. And if they ever call needing help again? I’ll open my door in a heartbeat. But this hurt—the ingratitude, the coldness—that’ll stay with me forever.
