“I’m not your babysitter or your housemaid”: I told my daughter I wasn’t obliged to look after my granddaughter—I have my own life too.
It all began with the happiest moment—the birth of my granddaughter. Like any loving mother and grandmother, I rushed to help: sleepless nights, walks in the park, ironing tiny onesies, cooking mashed veggies, drawing warm baths. It felt like my duty, my way of supporting my daughter and her family, offering the same warmth I wished I’d had during those exhausting early months of motherhood.
But slowly, my help was taken for granted. My daughter and son-in-law began treating me like a free service. First, it was just a couple of hours. Then an evening. Then entire weekends. The requests piled up: *”Mum, can you stay with Emily? We’ve got a class.” “Mum, since you’re home, can you pick her up from nursery?” “Mum, we’ve got the gym—can you step in?”*
And I did. Because what else could I do? You can’t just leave a child. But soon, my “temporary help” became a permanent obligation. I was no longer part of their plans—just a convenient fallback.
Then came the moment that broke me. My daughter called, saying she and her husband had a work event, but Emily couldn’t go to nursery—she had a slight cough. Her husband was off fishing with his mates, and she *”just couldn’t miss this work thing.”* I bit my tongue, packed my things, and fetched Emily. Because, after all, she’s my granddaughter—I love her. But inside, resentment bubbled.
Today was the final straw. My daughter called, giddy, announcing she and James were flying to Spain—for two weeks. I asked, *”Will you take Emily with you?”* Her answer gutted me: *”No, of course not. You’ll look after her. We’ve already booked the flights—all-inclusive.”*
No request. No consideration. Just an assumption. As if being retired meant I had nothing—no plans, no desires—except waiting on their convenience.
I picked up the phone and spoke, calm but firm: *”Anna, I’m not your nanny. I’m not your servant. You’re adults with a child—that’s your responsibility. If you want a couples’ holiday, either take Emily or find someone else. I’ve got plans—my friend Margaret and I booked a spa retreat a month ago.”*
Silence. Then came the meltdown. Shrieks about me being selfish, a terrible grandmother, *”All normal grandparents beg to spend time with their grandchildren!”* And, of course, *”What else are you going to do? Sit around watching telly?”*
But I was done justifying myself. I helped out of love, not duty. And when love turns into exploitation—boundaries must be set.
Yes, I’m retired. That doesn’t mean my life is over. I have my own plans, my weariness, my health. Why didn’t anyone ask if I wanted two weeks of sole responsibility for a child? Why must I sacrifice myself for their holiday?
I adore my granddaughter. But I won’t let my love be weaponised against me. If that means a fight with my daughter, so be it. Real family means respect—not entitlement.
For the first time in years, I said *”no.”* And as the weight lifted, I breathed. Because I’m not a nanny. Not a maid. I’m a mother. And I’m a woman—who has every right to her own life.
