Emily stood by the window of her flat in Manchester, watching Paul buckle their four-year-old son, Oliver, into the car seat. The little boy was chattering excitedly about the weekend ahead at his grandparents’ house. Every Saturday, they’d drive him over to Emily’s parents so they could spend time with their grandson. But each time they picked him up, Emily could feel that familiar frustration bubbling up inside her. Her mum, Margaret, genuinely believed she was doing them a massive favour by looking after Oliver—as if it were some grand sacrifice. The thought made Emily’s blood boil, and it took everything she had not to snap.
It had started two years ago, when Oliver was old enough to stay over. Emily and Paul thought it’d be lovely for her parents to bond with him—Margaret and her husband, David, adored Oliver. They spoiled him with homemade biscuits, took him to the park, read him bedtime stories. Emily loved seeing how happy he was with them. She remembered her own childhood stays at her nan’s and wanted Oliver to have those same warm memories. But she never imagined her good intentions would backfire like this.
Every time they collected Oliver, Margaret would greet them with this martyred look, sighing things like, “Well, there you go—another weekend saved for you two,” or, “He’s a handful, but I managed, just so you could have a break.” Emily would clench her fists, her jaw tight, wanting to shout, “We didn’t *ask* you to babysit! We brought him so *you* could enjoy him!” But instead, she’d force a smile and mutter, “Thanks, Mum.” Even Paul, usually so easygoing, was losing patience. On the drive home, he’d grumble, “Does she honestly think we’re dumping him here just to go off gallivanting? This was for *them*, not us!”
It wasn’t that Emily and Paul didn’t cherish their time with Oliver. They loved building dens in the living room, walking along the canal, just being with him. But they also saw how much Margaret missed him during the week—the way her face lit up when Oliver barrelled into her arms yelling, “Nana!” They wanted her to have that joy, and for Oliver to grow up surrounded by family love. But with every visit, Margaret’s comments grated more. “I’m shattered, but never mind—it’s all for you two,” she’d say, like they’d offloaded him just to swan off somewhere. Emily would feel this weird guilt, though she couldn’t even say why.
The breaking point came last weekend. They dropped Oliver off as usual, and Margaret sighed dramatically, “Here we go again—another day running after him. But I *suppose* you’ve got your own things to do.” Emily snapped. Her voice shook as she said, “Mum, we’re not bringing Oliver because we can’t be bothered with him! We’re doing this so *you* can spend time with him—so he knows you, loves you! This isn’t a favour to *us*!” The room went quiet. Margaret blinked, stunned, while David coughed awkwardly behind his newspaper. Paul squeezed Emily’s hand like, *”Finally.”*
That evening, when they picked Oliver up, Margaret was oddly quiet. No complaints, no sighs—just a soft hug for Oliver and a quiet, “Come again soon.” Emily felt relieved but also a pang of guilt. Had she been too harsh? But as Paul started the car, he grinned. “She’ll get used to it—we’re not palming him off, we’re sharing the joy.” Oliver hummed a nursery rhyme in the backseat, and Emily thought, *For his smile, I’ll say it a thousand times.*
They still take Oliver to his grandparents, but carefully now. Emily hopes her mum’s finally understood—this isn’t about free childcare, it’s about love. But every time Margaret hints at some “sacrifice,” that old irritation flares. Emily knows their family isn’t a transaction. And if her mum still doesn’t get it? She’ll say it again. For Oliver. For the truth.
