My mother is on the hunt for romance, while I’m drowning in nappies and tantrums.
Mum, Margaret Thompson, seems to have struck my children and me from her life entirely. I’m juggling two little terrors who never give me a moment’s peace, while she—their actual grandmother—can’t be bothered to lift a finger. The sting of it gnaws at me, leaving me feeling lonelier and more resentful by the day.
Why is she like this? I’ve no clue. We drifted apart when I left home at eighteen, moving from Manchester to London to start my own life. Since then, our conversations have been limited to the odd awkward phone call. I’d hoped having children might bring us closer, but every time I ask her to visit or even just listen, she cuts me off within minutes: “Emily, I’ve got to dash—plans!” What plans could possibly matter more than family? I’ll never understand.
Mum always preached self-reliance when I was younger. “You’ve got to stand on your own two feet,” she’d say. But when I left home, I wasn’t just standing—I was barely clinging on. Scraping together rent for a shoebox flat, juggling jobs, counting every penny—it was all on me. I managed, but at what cost? Now that I’m a parent myself, I’d hoped for a shred of support. Fat chance.
Instead, her diary is packed with dates. She flits around like a lovestruck teenager, chasing “The One,” and she’s well past fifty. Don’t get me wrong—I want her happy. But when her quest for companionship leaves no room for her own grandchildren, I can’t stay quiet. The kids ask where Grandma is, and I’ve no good answers. Every excuse is more creative than the last: she’s busy, she’s knackered, she’s meeting “a fascinating bloke.”
Last week, I cracked. After yet another refusal to visit, I rang her and let rip: “Mum, have you no shame? At your age, you should be doting on grandkids, not swanning off to candlelit dinners!” She fired right back: “I wasted my best years on you—working myself to the bone, raising you solo! This is *my* time, Emily! Your kids, your problem!” Her words stung like a slap. Sure, she did a lot for me—but does that mean she gets to check out of family life forever?
I watch her slipping further away. We’ve met up maybe once a month in the last two years. She’s distant, practically a stranger now. Even her voice has lost its warmth. I’m not asking her to ditch her life for ours—but is one afternoon a week really too much? A cuppa, a cuddle with the grandkids, a breather for me? I’m terrified we’ll end up as nothing more than names on a Christmas card.
How do I tell her that life isn’t just frothy lattes and new love interests? That family—her own flesh and blood—actually means something? I’m sick of rows, sick of feeling like an afterthought. Maybe she’ll find her “knight in shining armour,” settle down, and remember us later. But deep down, I fear “later” won’t come at all.
I don’t want to lose her. But how do you hold on when the other person’s already let go? I’m sinking under the weight of it all, and she doesn’t even seem to notice. Am I selfish? Or has she just forgotten what it means to be a mum?
