**Diary Entry – Margaret Whitmore**
I set my teacup down with such force that the liquid sloshed onto the lace tablecloth. On the other end of the line, my neighbour Gladys was still scolding me in that shrill tone of hers.
“Margaret, how can you turn your back on your own grandchildren? They’re just little ones—what harm have they ever done you?”
“Gladys, it’s none of your concern,” I replied coolly. “Everyone has their reasons.”
“But what reason could you possibly have against your own flesh and blood? Emily’s only four, and little Thomas just turned two. They miss their gran!”
I sighed and glanced out the window. Neighbourhood children were playing in the garden, and for a moment, I saw mine there instead—Emily begging to be pushed on the swing, Thomas toddling after pigeons with those unsteady steps of his.
“I don’t have time for this, Gladys. Goodbye.”
I hung up and walked to the kitchen. The fridge still held Emily’s crayon scribbles, which she’d proudly called “a portrait of Gran.” I took them down and shoved them into the drawer.
The doorbell made me start. Through the peephole, I saw my son, Edward, laden with shopping bags.
“Mum, could you open up?” he asked, exhaustion lining his voice.
I undid the latch but didn’t step aside.
“If you’ve come to beg me to babysit again, you can turn right back around.”
Edward set the bags down and met my gaze.
“Don’t be childish, Mum. Olivia’s come down with a fever—forty degrees. I’ve got work, and there’s no one else to watch the kids.”
“Find a nanny. You’ve got plenty to spare, haven’t you?”
“On such short notice? Mum, they’re your grandchildren!”
“My grandchildren?” I gave a bitter laugh. “Were they still mine when you booted me out of your flat six months ago?”
Edward rubbed his temples. We’d had this argument too many times.
“We explained it wasn’t personal. The two-bed was cramped for four of us.”
“Oh, cramped? And yet I’m the one left scrambling for rented rooms in my old age—that’s perfectly fine, is it?”
“We send money—”
“Pennies! Twenty years I gave your family—raising your children while you and Olivia worked. Cooking, cleaning, washing. And the moment they grew out of nappies, out I went!”
“Mum, we had no choice—”
“You had a choice. A three-bed, even a four. But no, you’d rather spend on a new car and holidays to Spain.”
Edward fell silent. He knew I was right, but pride kept him from admitting it.
“Listen,” he said quietly, “I know we handled things poorly. But the children didn’t do anything wrong. They adore you.”
“I adore them too,” I confessed. “That’s why I won’t let them see how their parents treat me. Better they remember a loving gran than watch me be used.”
“We’re not using you!”
“Aren’t you? Who’s calling every week to dump the kids on me? Dropping them off sick because nursery won’t take them? Leaving them for weekends so you can swan off?”
Edward opened his mouth, but I pressed on.
“And when I had that heart scare last month, who came? Gladys. Not my son, not my daughter-in-law—a stranger.”
“Mum, we’ve got careers, the kids—”
“Everybody has jobs, everybody has children. Decent people don’t discard their parents.”
I stood firm in the doorway. Edward sighed, realising today was a lost cause.
“Fine,” he muttered, lifting the bags. “But this isn’t right. Emily keeps asking why Gran doesn’t love her anymore.”
The words stung, but I didn’t flinch.
“Tell her Gran’s tired of being convenient.”
Once he’d gone, I leaned against the closed door, throat tight. I blinked back tears and wandered to the armchair where I used to read Emily stories.
This flat—a rented one-bed on the outskirts—had been home for half a year now. The landlady was kind enough, but it wasn’t the same. Someone else’s walls, someone else’s smells.
It had begun over supper. Edward and Olivia thought I couldn’t hear from the guest room.
“Maybe it’s time your mum found her own place,” Olivia had said. “The children need their own rooms.”
Edward hesitated. “But she helps with the kids.”
“Helps? More like interferes. Spoils them rotten, criticises me. Yesterday she let Emily stay up till eleven watching cartoons—after I’d said no!”
“Should we talk to her?”
“About what? She acts like we owe her. It’s our flat, our children. We make the rules.”
I hadn’t slept that night. By breakfast, Olivia made it official.
“Margaret, we think it’s best if you find your own accommodation.”
I choked on my tea.
“Pardon?”
“You’re perfectly capable. And we’re cramped.”
“Cramped? Funny, it wasn’t an issue for twenty years.”
“The children were little then—we needed help,” Edward cut in.
“Ah. So while I was useful, I stayed. Now I’m redundant.”
“That’s not—”
“I’ll go. But mark my words—with this roof goes the free childcare.”
Olivia paled. “You wouldn’t cut ties with the children!”
“I’ll see them Sundays. Two hours. Like every other gran who lives apart.”
“But what if we’re ill? Or need coverage?”
“Get a nanny.”
“That’s extortionate!”
“And my labour was free. Twenty years of it. I think that’s quite enough.”
They’d pleaded, backtracked, but I held firm. The truth was plain: I’d been tolerated for my usefulness. Now I was disposable.
The flat came quickly. The landlady, an elderly widow, took pity on the “poor gran cast out by her own.” Even knocked a bit off the rent.
Moving day was agony. Edward helped, silent and sheepish. Emily clung to my skirt, sobbing.
“Gran, don’t go!”
“I’m not gone, sweetheart. Just living somewhere else.”
“Can I visit?”
“Whenever you like.”
But she never did. The calls grew sparse, then stopped. Olivia, no doubt, had barred contact with the “difficult” mother-in-law. And Edward, ever her puppet, complied.
The real pain came a month in. Edward rang midweek, frantic.
“Mum, emergency. Olivia’s down with flu—I’ve got a client meeting tomorrow. Can you take the kids?”
“No.”
“What? They’re your grandchildren!”
“Your children. You wanted independence—you’ve got it.”
“You’re punishing them for our mistake!”
“I’m teaching you consequences.”
The calls continued—Olivia’s migraines, nursery closures, last-minute weekends away. Each time, I refused.
“Mum, this is petty!” Edward would rage.
“Petty? You evicted me!”
“We rented you a flat!”
“With *my* pension topping up your pittance!”
Five hundred a month toward fifteen hundred rent—his idea of “help.”
Tonight, Gladys came by with steak-and-kidney pie.
“Thought you might not be cooking proper,” she said.
We sat at the kitchen table, Gladys chattering about the old neighbourhood. I half-listened.
“When will you see the little ones again?” she finally asked.
“Perhaps never.”
“Margaret! They’re your family!”
“Family doesn’t discard kin like worn-out shoes.”
Gladys sighed. “I know they’ve wounded you. But must the children pay?”
“And why should I keep paying for their parents’ cruelty?”
“Weren’t the children your joy?”
“They were. But joy shouldn’t cost one’s dignity.”
After she left, I sat in the quiet. Gladys was right—everyone has their version of fairness. Edward and Olivia had theirs; I had mine.
Mine was this: I would no longer be convenient. No more bending to those who saw me as a service, not a person.
I loved my grandchildren. Deeply. But at sixty-two, I also loved myself enough to demand respect.
Let this be my final stand—not as a grandmother-on-demand, but as a woman who mattered for who she was, not what she provided.
The phone blinked with missed calls. Edward had tried again. I didn’t pick up.
Let him solve his own problems. After all, that’s what he wanted—to stand on his own two feet.
