It all began with the brightest of moments—the birth of my granddaughter. Like any doting mother and grandmother, I rushed to help: losing sleep, pushing prams, ironing tiny onesies, mashing peas, and filling baby baths. I truly believed it was my duty, my way of supporting my daughter and her family with love and warmth. I remembered those exhausting early days of motherhood myself and how much I’d needed a hand.
But slowly, my kindness became expected—like an unpaid service. My daughter and son-in-law started treating me as their personal childcare solution. First, it was just “Mum, could you watch Millie for an hour?” Then a whole evening. Then entire weekends. Soon, it was: “Mum, stay with Millie, we’ve got Pilates,” “Mum, you’re home anyway, could you fetch her from nursery?” “Mum, we’ve booked spin class—sort us out?”
And I did. Because—what else could I do? You can’t just leave a child at nursery. But before long, my “just this once” favour had become a full-time job. My schedule didn’t matter. They made plans—I was just meant to slot in.
The final straw came recently. My daughter called, chirping about their office party—but Millie couldn’t go to nursery because of a sniffle. Her husband, naturally, had jetted off fishing with his mates, and she “absolutely couldn’t miss” the work do. I bit my tongue, packed my things, and took Millie. Because, at the end of the day, she’s my granddaughter—I adore her. But inside, I was simmering.
Then came today’s bombshell. My daughter rang, positively delighted, to announce she and Tom were jetting off to Spain—for two whole weeks. I said how lovely, and asked, “Are you taking Millie?” The reply floored me:
“Don’t be silly—you’ll have her. We’ve already booked the flights, all-inclusive resort and everything.”
No question. No discussion. Just assumed I’d drop everything. Never occurred to them that pensioners might have plans—or, heaven forbid, a life outside babysitting.
So I took a breath, steadied my voice, and said:
“Emily, I’m not your on-call nanny. Or your unpaid housekeeper. You’re grown-ups with a child—that’s your responsibility. If you want a couples’ holiday, either take Millie or hire someone. I’ve got plans—my friend Margaret and I booked a spa break over a month ago.”
Silence. Then came the meltdown. Screaming about how selfish I was, what a terrible grandmother, how “all normal grandmas live for their grandkids,” while I only cared about myself. And honestly—what else was I going to do? Sit around watching reruns of *Midsomer Murders*?
But I’ve had enough of justifying myself. I helped out of love, not obligation. And when love turns into being taken for granted, it’s time to set boundaries.
Yes, I’m retired. But that doesn’t mean my life’s over. I’ve got plans, aches, ailments, and the right to say no. Why didn’t anyone ask if I *wanted* two weeks of non-stop nappies and tantrums? Why should I sacrifice myself for someone else’s beach holiday?
I love my granddaughter. But I won’t let that love be an excuse to exploit me. And if that means a row with my daughter—so be it. Real family means respect, not treating me like a convenience.
I said no—for the first time in years. And you know what? It felt *brilliant*. Because I’m not a nanny. Not a maid. I’m a mother. A woman. And I’ve got every right to my own life.
