Oh, it’s such a heartbreaking situation… My son’s been married for five years now, and in all that time, I’ve never once been invited round to their place. Not even a step over the threshold. My daughter-in-law made it clear from the start—she’s not one for visitors, you see.
My son and his wife live in her flat—a cosy one-bed in the heart of London. Enough for the two of them, I suppose. They’re saving up, working hard, planning to move somewhere bigger one day. It all sounds sensible, doesn’t it?
While they didn’t have kids, I kept my distance. They were both busy with work, dawn till dusk, and I had my little cottage in the countryside—everyone in their own lane, you know? We’d meet up at Christmas, call now and then. I was fine with that.
But then everything changed. Emily—that’s my daughter-in-law—had a really tough pregnancy, and the birth was even worse. The poor thing nearly didn’t make it. I visited her in hospital, brought her what she needed, worried myself sick. After all that, I never imagined they’d shut me out once the baby arrived.
Even before the baby came, Emily said they wanted to raise their child alone—no outside help. I thought, *Ah, she’ll say differently after a few sleepless nights.* I’ve been a young mum myself—I know how hard it is.
I remember when *my* mum helped me raise Daniel. She’d cook, clean, take him out so I could rest. That support was everything.
So, there I was at the hospital when they were discharged, flowers and gifts in hand, tears in my eyes. Hugged my son, congratulated Emily. And then? They just dropped me home. *”We need to rest, we’ll catch up later,”* they said. No *“Come in for tea”*—not even a *“Sit down for five minutes.”* Like I’d been put on mute.
For the first month, they let *no one* near the baby. Emily called it *“bonding time,”* *“adjustment period.”* Fine, I waited. But then another month passed… and another. Half a year now, and I still haven’t set foot in their home.
The only time I see my granddaughter is on walks. Emily might hand me the pram and say, *“Take her out, I’ve got laundry.”* And off I go—only to hear the door click shut behind me. Not once have I been invited inside. *Not once.*
At first, I was hurt. Cried over it, got angry. Then I just… accepted it. *At least she lets me see the baby*, I tell myself. We stroll through the park, I sing to her, then back the pram goes—and that’s it.
Sometimes I wonder—did I do something wrong? Does Emily have her reasons? But she’s never explained. Just this… cold distance, like we’re not family, just neighbours passing on the stairs.
What do you think? Does a new mum have the right to act like this? Or is it just… well, rudeness? What would *you* do if you were in my shoes?
