**Diary Entry**
I’m not made of steel. It breaks my heart for my son and grandson, but I refuse to bend any further to my daughter-in-law’s demands.
Even now, I can’t fathom why Eleanor ever had a child if she was just going to carry on chasing her career and staring into the mirror after he was born. The thought still stings. My son, Edward—bright, driven—has done well for himself. At 35, he holds a senior position at a prestigious tech firm in London. But Eleanor? She’s nine years older than him, with a career sharp enough to cut glass. For years, children weren’t part of her plans. She was terrified of losing her footing, of becoming irrelevant while some hungrier, younger colleague swooped in.
They had all the trappings of success—a penthouse in Chelsea, a country home in the Cotswolds, luxury cars, holidays in the Mediterranean. But warmth? That was in short supply. They saw each other less than they did their business partners. And though I never interfered, it pained me to watch Edward wear himself thin, trying to be the perfect husband while hitting a brick wall at every turn.
When Eleanor announced her pregnancy at 40, the whole family was stunned. Even Edward didn’t know whether to celebrate or brace himself. As for me? I’d long given up hope of grandchildren. I wept with joy. But soon, that joy turned to dread.
She barely left the office, even in her final trimester. Practically gave birth during a board meeting. I swear, she didn’t let go of her phone once, not even in the delivery room. Half expected her to march straight back to work from the hospital.
For the first few weeks, though, it was like she’d been replaced. Motherhood hit her hard—she hovered over the baby, sleepless, terrified of missing a single breath. She barred everyone from the house, even me. Insisted on doing everything herself. But it didn’t last.
The moment she stopped breastfeeding, the pressure to return to work snapped back like a rubber band. Eleanor claimed the company was crumbling without her, that her deputy was botching projects, that everything would collapse if she didn’t return. Finding a nanny proved impossible—she trusted no one. So she offered to pay me to look after my grandson. I agreed, hoping it might bring us closer.
At first, it was perfect. I cared for the baby during the week, rested on weekends while his parents took over. It was a relief, finally bonding with my grandson. Then, slowly, the demands piled up. Eleanor dismissed the housekeeper and began expecting me to cook and clean, too. She still paid me, yes, but the workload became unbearable—a baby needs constant attention.
One afternoon, I was scrubbing the fridge while the little one napped in his playpen. The bedroom was upstairs—no point traipsing back and forth, disturbing him. I just wanted to finish quickly. But when Eleanor came home and saw him there, she exploded.
“Why isn’t he in his cot? Why isn’t he out for a walk? What am I paying you for? I expect him to be well-rested, fed, and tended to—properly!”
The next day, the housekeeper was back. And so was the surveillance. Cameras in every room. Daily reports. Even the tiniest scrape earned me a scolding. I didn’t feel like a grandmother anymore—just a servant under a microscope.
I started fearing even a trip to the loo. Always felt watched. And Edward? He took her side. “Mum, try to be patient. You’re being paid, after all.” As if money could numb the ache in my chest.
After one final blow-up—when Eleanor called me “useless and lazy”—I snapped.
“I quit. I’m not your maid. Hire a nanny with a degree if you must, but count me out of your warped little world.” And I walked out.
Now, Eleanor won’t even let me across the threshold. My grandson might as well be a stranger. Edward? He’s silent. Sends the odd, sterile text once a month, but he’s chosen his side.
I’m not a machine. This hurts. I lived for my family, for my grandson… But I won’t bend anymore. This isn’t what I raised my son for. Let them figure it out. Though from what I hear, their nannies never last more than a week. Turns out, not everyone can stomach their “perfect rules.”
If Eleanor had ever just said, “I’m sorry,” things might’ve been different. But the bridge is ashes now.
