Emily asked me to move in with them for a week to look after their son, but turns out I wasn’t just needed for childcare—I ended up cleaning the entire house.
Vera sat in her cozy flat in Manchester, staring at the suitcase she’d just packed. Her daughter, Charlotte, had called the day before with a request she couldn’t refuse: “Mum, could you come stay with us for a week? We need someone to watch Oliver while James and I sort out some work things.” Vera, who adored her five-year-old grandson, agreed straight away. She pictured playing with Oliver, reading him stories, taking him to the park. But the moment she stepped into her daughter’s home, she realized—this wasn’t going to be a lovely week with her grandson. It was going to be hard labor, and no one had warned her. Her chest tightened with hurt, but it was too late to back out now.
Charlotte and her husband, James, lived in a spacious flat in central Manchester. Vera had always admired how her daughter juggled work, family, and a tidy home. But when she walked inside, her breath caught—the kitchen was piled with dirty dishes, toys were strewn across the living room, and the floors had stains no one had bothered to wipe. Charlotte hugged her quickly and said, “Mum, we’re leaving tomorrow morning, Ollie’s all yours—you’ll be fine, yeah? Oh, and if you’ve got time, maybe tidy up a bit?” Vera nodded, but unease settled in her gut. That “maybe” was the word she’d underestimated.
The next day, after waving Charlotte and James off, Vera was left with Oliver. She was ready for tantrums, endless “whys,” even him refusing his porridge. What she wasn’t ready for was the house becoming her personal nightmare. Oliver, like any five-year-old, ran wild, scattering toys everywhere. Vera chased after him, trying to keep things somewhat tidy, but it was like trying to empty the sea with a bucket. By evening, she found a list Charlotte had left on the fridge: “Mum, could you do the laundry, mop the floors, sort the wardrobe, and pick up groceries?” Vera froze, her temples pulsing. This wasn’t babysitting—this was a full-blown housekeeper gig.
Every day turned into a slog. Mornings started with breakfast for Oliver, then she’d drag him to the park to burn off energy. Back home, she’d fix his lunch, wash dishes, do laundry, clean. The wardrobe Charlotte had asked her to “sort” was a disaster of crumpled clothes that needed refolding. Groceries? Vera hauled heavy bags from the shop while Oliver tugged her hand, whining for ice cream. By nightfall, she was shattered, but instead of resting, she’d read him stories because he wouldn’t sleep otherwise. She loved Oliver, but with each day, her energy drained, and resentment grew. “I came for my grandson, not to be their maid,” she thought, staring at the new wrinkles in the mirror.
By midweek, Vera cracked. She called Charlotte and, keeping her voice steady, asked, “Lottie, you asked me to help with Oliver—why am I doing all the housework?” Her daughter sounded surprised. “Mum, you’re already here—I thought it’d be easy for you. James and I are swamped, we’ve got no time.” Vera swallowed the lump in her throat. She wanted to scream that she wasn’t young anymore, that her back ached, that she deserved a break too. Instead, she just said, “I came for Oliver, not your flat.” Charlotte muttered something about “not thinking” and promised to sort it, but Vera didn’t believe her.
By week’s end, when Charlotte and James returned, the flat was spotless, Oliver was happy, and Vera felt wrung out like a dishrag. Charlotte hugged her, saying, “Mum, you’re a lifesaver—we’d have been lost without you!” But Vera didn’t hear gratitude. She heard proof she’d been used. Forcing a smile, she kissed Oliver goodbye and went home, vowing never to agree to such “favors” without clear boundaries. Love for her daughter and grandson warred with the bitter knowledge she’d been taken for granted.
Now, back in her own flat, Vera wonders how to tell Charlotte the truth. She adores Oliver and would happily spend time with him—but not at the cost of her health or self-respect. She won’t be the invisible help anymore, her efforts treated as a given. The next conversation won’t be easy, but she’s ready to stand her ground. For Oliver, for their family—but most of all, for herself.
