“I’m not made of iron! It hurts me for my son and grandson, but I won’t bend to my daughter-in-law anymore.”
—I still don’t understand why this Madeleine even had a child if she kept living for her career and her reflection even after giving birth,— says Evelyn Dawson, a 62-year-old woman from Winchester, bitterness weighing heavy in her voice.
Her son, Thomas—clever, ambitious, at 35 he holds a senior position at a prestigious tech firm in London. But his wife, Madeleine, has climbed even higher—she’s nine years his senior and carved out a meteoric career in a major corporation. For the longest time, children weren’t even a flicker in her plans. She feared losing ground, being left “out of the loop,” surpassed by someone younger, hungrier for glory.
They lived, as they say, in style: a penthouse in Chelsea, a country estate in the Cotswolds, the latest luxury cars, holidays across Europe. But warmth in their family was scarce. They crossed paths at home less often than with business associates. And Evelyn, though she never interfered, ached for her son—she could see how exhausted he was, how hard he tried to be a good husband, yet it was like pushing against a brick wall.
When Madeleine, at 40, abruptly announced she was pregnant, the whole family was stunned. Even Thomas didn’t know whether to celebrate or brace himself. And Evelyn, who’d long given up hope of grandchildren, wept with joy. But soon, elation turned to unease.
—She barely left the office, even in her ninth month. Practically gave birth during a board meeting. Never put her phone down, not even in the delivery room,— Evelyn recalls. —I half expected her to go straight back to her desk from the hospital.
Yet in those first weeks after the baby was born, Madeleine seemed transformed. Hormones took hold—she hovered over the infant, sleepless, terrified to miss a single breath. She barred everyone from the house, even Evelyn. Insisted on doing everything herself. But it didn’t last.
The moment she stopped breastfeeding, the question of returning to work loomed. Madeleine claimed the company was crumbling, her deputy was botching projects, and if she didn’t step back in, all would be lost. Finding a nanny proved impossible—Madeleine trusted no one. So she offered to pay Evelyn to mind the baby. Evelyn agreed, hoping it might bring them closer.
—At first, it was perfect. I looked after the little one, had weekends off, the parents took over. I was happy—finally, time with my grandson,— the grandmother remembers.
But then it began. Madeleine fired the housekeeper and started asking Evelyn not just to mind the child, but to clean, to cook. Yes, she paid, but the workload became unbearable—a baby demands constant attention.
—One day, I was scrubbing the fridge while the baby napped in his playpen. The master bedroom was upstairs, too far to dash if he stirred. I wanted to finish quickly, not disturb him,— Evelyn explains.
But when Madeleine came home and saw her son in the playpen, she exploded like a firework:
—Why isn’t he in his cot? Why isn’t he out for a walk?! What am I paying you for? I expect him rested, fed, pristine!
By the next day, the housekeeper was back. Along with total surveillance. Cameras in every room, daily reports. Even the slightest scrape earned a scolding. Evelyn didn’t feel like a grandmother anymore—just a servant under a microscope.
—I was afraid to even slip away to the loo,— she admits, voice trembling. —Always felt watched. And Thomas took Madeleine’s side—*”Mum, be patient, you’re being paid, after all.”* But this wasn’t just a job—it was breaking my heart.
After another outburst, when Madeleine called her “useless and lazy,” Evelyn snapped.
—That’s it. I quit. I’m not your slave. Hire a nanny with a degree if you want, but count me out of your wars,— she said, and walked away.
Since then, Madeleine’s barred her from setting foot in the house. Won’t let her see her grandson. And Thomas? Thomas stays silent. Sends the odd stiff text each month, but stands with his wife.
—I’m not a machine! It hurts. I lived for my family, for my grandson…,— Evelyn whispers. —But I won’t bend anymore. This isn’t what I raised my son for. Let them manage how they please. Funny though—their nannies never last more than a week. Seems no one has the patience for their *”perfect rules.”*
Had Madeleine ever just said, *”I’m sorry,”*—maybe things could’ve been different. But now the bridges are ash.
