“I’m not made of steel! It hurts me for my son and grandson, but I won’t bend over backwards for my daughter-in-law anymore,” Margaret Davies says bitterly, her voice trembling with years of suppressed pain.
At 62, Margaret still struggles to understand why her daughter-in-law, Catherine, ever had a child if all she cared about after giving birth was her career and her reflection in the mirror.
Her son, James, is clever and ambitious—at 35, he holds a senior position at a prestigious tech firm in London. But Catherine, nine years his senior, had climbed even higher, building a formidable career at a major corporation. For years, children weren’t even on her radar. She feared losing her status, being sidelined by someone younger, hungrier for success.
They lived the high life—a luxury flat in Kensington, a countryside estate in the Cotswolds, the latest cars, holidays across Europe. But warmth in their marriage was scarce. They crossed paths at home less often than with business partners. Margaret, though she never interfered, worried endlessly for James. It was obvious how exhausted he was, how hard he tried to be a good husband—yet it was like talking to a brick wall.
When Catherine announced her pregnancy at 40, the entire family was stunned. Even James didn’t know whether to celebrate or brace himself. Margaret, who’d long given up hope of grandchildren, wept with joy. But the happiness soon turned to worry.
“She barely left the office, even in her final months. Practically gave birth during a board meeting,” Margaret recalls. “She wouldn’t put her phone down, not even in the hospital. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d gone straight back to work from the maternity ward.”
For the first few weeks after their son, Oliver, was born, Catherine seemed transformed. Hormones took over—she hovered over the baby, sleepless, terrified of missing a single breath. She shut everyone out, even Margaret, insisting on doing everything herself. But it didn’t last.
The moment she stopped breastfeeding, returning to work became non-negotiable. Catherine claimed the company was crumbling without her, that her deputy was botching everything. A nanny was hard to find—Catherine trusted no one. So she offered to pay Margaret to look after Oliver. Margaret agreed, hopeful it might bring them closer.
“At first, it was perfect. I cared for him during the week, and they took over on weekends. It was a joy—finally, time with my grandson,” she remembers.
Then things changed. Catherine dismissed the housekeeper and began expecting Margaret not just to mind the baby, but to clean and cook too. She still paid, but the workload became unbearable—a toddler needs constant attention.
“One day, I was scrubbing the fridge while Oliver napped in his playpen. The bedroom was upstairs—too far to leave him alone. I wanted to finish quickly without disturbing him,” Margaret explains.
But when Catherine came home and saw her son in the playpen, she exploded.
“Why isn’t he in his cot? Why isn’t he out for fresh air? What am I paying you for? I expect him well-rested, well-fed, perfectly looked after!”
The next day, the housekeeper returned—along with total surveillance. Cameras in every room, daily reports. Even the smallest scrape earned a scolding. Margaret no longer felt like a grandmother—just a servant under a microscope.
“I was afraid to even use the loo,” she admits, her voice breaking. “Always felt like someone was watching. And James took Catherine’s side—‘Mum, be patient, you’re being paid.’ But this wasn’t a job to me—it was my heart breaking!”
After another outburst, where Catherine called her “useless and lazy,” Margaret snapped.
“That’s it. I quit. I’m not your servant. Hire a nanny with a degree if you want, but count me out of your wars.” And she walked out.
Since then, Catherine has barred her from the house. She refuses to let her see Oliver. And James? He stays silent. A brief text once a month, always siding with his wife.
“I’m not a machine! It hurts. I lived for my family, for my grandson,” Margaret whispers. “But I won’t bend anymore. This isn’t why I raised my son. Let them figure it out. Though, funny thing—their nannies never last more than a week. Seems not everyone can handle their ‘perfect rules.’”
If Catherine had ever just said, “I’m sorry,” maybe things could’ve been different. But now? The bridge is burned.
