“My Grandkids Only See Fresh Fruit Once a Month While I Buy Expensive Food for My Cats”—My Daughter-in-Law Rants at Me, Accusing Me of Being Heartless… My daughter-in-law decided to shame me because her children only get fruit once a month, while I buy premium cat food for my pets. But the fact is, her children have a mum and dad to care for their nutrition—my cats only have me. When I told my son and daughter-in-law perhaps it was time to slow down their baby boom, I was told to mind my own business. So I do now. I feed my cats and listen to the righteous outrage of my endlessly reproachful daughter-in-law.

Author Walton MerrittReading 7 minViews 3

The grandchildren only get fruit once a month, and yet she buys that posh food for her cats! fumes my daughter-in-law, as if I need a lesson in compassion.

You see, shes adopted this new habit of virtue shaming me, saying her kids barely see a banana while my cats dine on luxury pâté. But heres the rub: her kids have a father and a mothertwo whole parents, in fact!to see to their vitamins, while Im the sole carer for my feline overlords. When I once dared to suggest to my son and his wife that perhaps they ought to slow down their enthusiastic campaign for English population growth a bit, I was swiftly told to mind my own business. So now, I do just that: I keep to myself, feed my cats, and listen to my daughter-in-laws outbursts with the patience of a saintor, at least, a mildly tolerant neighbour.

My sons wedding, if you must know, coincided rather neatly with my daughter-in-law expecting their first. Naturally, they both insisted the wedding was a grand romance, and the baby a mere happy accident. I scoffed privately, rather unconvinced, but said nothing. My son is a grown manold enough to land himself in his own dramas.

Before going on maternity leave, she worked as a cashier in Sainsburys, though she spent most of her pregnancy off sick because, according to her, she couldnt bear dealing with the public nuisance that is, well, the public. Given her own short fuse, I found her aversion to workplace squabbles entirely plausible.

Frankly, my opinion about her fiery temperament mattered little; after all, we didnt even live together. I had my own cosy little flat, while my son and his wife took on a mortgage for a not-so-cosy three-bedroom nearby. He bought it just before the wedding, after we sold the flat we once sharedwhich, for the record, belonged to me. With my share, I settled into my own place; he used his chunk to leap into mortgage misery.

At the time, I pleaded, Why on earth do you need a three-bedroom now? Thats a fortune in repayments! Of course, this was before I knew about the impending nuptials and, er, expansion of the family. It all made sense, rather suddenly.

He alone was responsible for the mortgage, as his wifes income was basically a mirage, what with her perpetual sick days and the looming prospect of maternity leave. She could certainly spend with aplomb, though, hence why the young couples purse always seemed empty.

I kept my distance to avoid turning into the villain of their story. He chose her, after all, and it wasnt my tub to share or my saucepans to scrub. They werent living in my house, and as far as I was concerned, if he loved her and the chaos she brought, so be it.

They settled not far from me, so my son would often pop round after work for dinner, since the only thing his wife ever made in the kitchen was excuses. She insisted cooking made her nauseous. Hard to argue with that.

When their first child arrived, I thought about popping over to helpfirst-time mum and all thatbut was rebuffed. She could manage just fine, apparently, with her own mum and the wisdom of Google. Well, who was I to stand in the way? I stuck to dropping by with treats for my grandson and left the domestic dramas to them.

My son juggled his mortgage, wife, and baby with the weary air of a man who made his own bed and now couldnt afford bedsheets. I did what I could: the odd hot meal, an understanding ear, a gentle hang in there, love. I offered hope: Once the little one grows and your wife goes back to work, things will lighten up.

Except, she never intended to return. When their eldest was nearly two, she was already expecting again. I suggestedever so delicatelythat perhaps two children was plenty for a young couple short of both patience and pence, but was told in no uncertain terms to butt out. They were fine and needed neither my money nor my nosiness. So, I switched our relations to minimal interaction. My son would bring my grandson to visit; I let them get on with their own lives.

Money, unsurprisingly, remained tightno fairy tale endings courtesy of her government child benefit, despite my sons optimism. He mentioned arguments with his wife over financesthey were both, apparently, no strangers to a well-timed row. But what was there left to advise? Get a divorce! Find another job! as if life were that simple.

The second grandchild arrived and, would you believe, they didnt even invite me to the hospital. By now, Id expected as much, and didnt make a fuss. No sense in putting myself up for ridiculeshed made her feelings clear, and my son wouldnt dream of contradicting her.

I met my younger grandchild for the first time when he was already seven months old, at the elders birthday. I showed up with gifts for both children and a little something for the party foodknowing their budget stretched about as far as a cold cuppa. I stayed for a couple of hours while my daughter-in-law stalked about with a face like thunder, as though letting me in was a royal favour.

Frankly, Im long past running after stroppy young women, trying to justify my existence. If they wanted to see me, fine. If not, also fine. I saw my eldest grandson thanks to my son; the younger, for now, was kept well out of reach by his mother.

Still, the money troubles raged on. Government payouts didnt save the day; my sons Im not an oil tycoon! refrain became familiar. I listened, sighed, and made tea.

And just the other day, I bumped into my daughter-in-law in Waitrose. She was, yet again, expecting (prolific, that one). She shot a scowl at my basket. Typical, she muttered through gritted teeth, My own children only see fruit once a month, and shes buying that fancy food for her cats!

Well, whose fault is it that I can afford proper food for my pets and they cant manage an orange between four? She knows moneys tight, the mortgage is biting, and my sons job is rockyyet she keeps giving the stork full-time employment. She could always get a job herself and buy her own precious fruit. Why, exactly, is that my headache?

No doubt, shell soon ban me from seeing the grandkids altogetherclearly, Im the bad granny who doesnt funnel every last quid into my sons household. But really, youve got to use your head in this life, and sadly, thats in short supply over there. Most disappointing of all: I suppose my sons not much better in that department, either.

I Called Out the Window, “Mum, Why Are You Up So Early? You’ll Catch Your Death!” She Turned, Waving Her Shovel: “I’m Doing This for You Lazybones.” The Next Day, Mum Was Gone… Even Now I Can’t Pass Our Garden Without My Heart Breaking: Each Time I See That Path, It Feels Like Someone’s Gripping My Chest. I Took That Photo on the Second of January—Just Passing By, I Saw Mum’s Footprints in the Snow and Stopped. Snapped a Picture Without Knowing Why; Now, It’s All That Remains From Those Days… We Always Celebrated New Year Together as a Family. On the 31st, Mum Was Up Early, Making Her Legendary Fried Cutlets, Calling Me Down in Her Peach-Print Apron. Dad Brought Home a Giant Tree (“Blimey, Dad, Did You Chop Down the Whole Forest?”), Mum Dusted Off Our Old Decorations—Including the Glass Angel She Got Me for My First Christmas. My Brother Showed Up With Champagne, My Sister and I Decorated, and at Midnight We All Went Outside. Sparklers, Mum by My Side, Whispering, “Isn’t Life Wonderful?”—And I Whispered Back, “The Best, Mum.” We Laughed Until We Cried, Mum Dancing in Her Wellies, Dad Spinning Her Round. The Next Morning, Mum Was Back in the Kitchen (“Save Room, It’s Only the Start of the Holidays!”), and On the 2nd, I Saw Her Clearing the Snow-Covered Path, Just Like Always (“Or You Lot Will End Up Trudging Through Drifts Till Spring—Put the Kettle On, Will You?”). That Was the Last Time I Heard Her Cheerful Voice. On the 3rd, She Murmured, “Girls, My Chest Hurts a Bit…”—Brushed Off the Ambulance (“Just Tired, Love”), Joked as Always, but Suddenly, Something Was Deeply Wrong—Her Last Words, “I Love You So Much… Hate to Say Goodbye.” Everything Happened in a Blink: One Day She Was Dancing Under Fireworks, and the Next, She Was Gone. I Stood in the Snow, Staring at Her Footprints from Gate to Porch—The Last Path She Cleared for Us, and I Couldn’t Bear to Let the Snow Hide Them. That Photo of Mum’s Final Tracks—I Look at It Every Third of January, Staring at the Bare Path Where Her Footprints Once Were, Realising: Beneath That Snow, She Left Her Last Mark. And Somehow, I’m Still Following Her Steps…

— Mr Smith, You’ve Overslept Again! — the Bus Driver’s Friendly Voice Held a Hint of Reproach. — That’s the Third Time This Week I’ve Seen You Chasing the Bus Like the Clappers. The elderly pensioner in his crumpled jacket was out of breath, leaning heavily on the handrail. His grey hair was tousled and his glasses had slid down to the tip of his nose. — Sorry, Andrew… — he gasped, fishing some scrunched-up notes from his pocket. — My watch must be running slow. Or perhaps I’m just getting on… Andrew Grant — the bus driver with over twenty years behind the wheel, in his mid-forties, sun-kissed from the road. He knew most of his regular travellers. But this old chap stood out — always polite, quiet, riding at the same time every day. — Oh, never mind, hop in. Where to today? — To the cemetery, as usual. The bus trundled off. Mr Smith settled into his favourite seat — third row from the driver, by the window, clutching a battered plastic bag filled with odds and ends. There weren’t many passengers — weekday morning. A couple of students gossiped, a suited man scrolled through his phone. Just another ordinary day. — Say, Mr Smith, — Andrew asked, glancing at his passenger in the mirror, — do you really go there every day? Isn’t it difficult? — Nowhere else to go, — the pensioner replied quietly, staring out the window. — My wife’s there… been gone a year and a half now. Made her a promise — I’d come every day. Something tightened in Andrew’s chest. He, too, was married, adored his wife. He couldn’t imagine… — Is it far from your place? — Not really, half an hour by bus. Walking it would take me ages, my legs aren’t what they used to be. My pension just about covers the bus fare. Weeks went by. Mr Smith became a fixture of the morning route. Andrew grew so used to seeing him, he’d even wait a couple of minutes if the old man was running late. — No need to wait for me, — Mr Smith said once, cottoning on to Andrew’s little kindness. — The timetable’s there for a reason. — Oh, nonsense, — Andrew waved it off. — A couple of minutes won’t hurt anyone. One morning, Mr Smith wasn’t there. Andrew waited — maybe he was late. But he didn’t come. Or the next day. Or the one after. — Say, that old gent who goes to the cemetery — haven’t seen him in a while, — Andrew remarked to the conductor, Mrs Turner. — Who knows, — she shrugged. — Maybe family’s come visiting, maybe he’s unwell… But Andrew missed him — his quiet ‘thank you’ as he got off, his sad little smile. A week went by. Still no Mr Smith. During his lunch break, Andrew decided to go to the terminus — the cemetery gates. — Excuse me, — he asked the woman manning the entrance, — there was an elderly gentleman, Mr Smith… grey-haired, glasses, always carried a plastic bag. Have you seen him? — Oh, him! — she said, nodding. — Came every single day, to visit his wife. — He hasn’t been in? — Not for about a week. — Has he taken ill? — Nobody’s said anything… He did mention where he lives once, just up the road — Garden Street, number fifteen. And who are you, if you don’t mind me asking? — I’m his bus driver. Gave him a lift every day. Garden Street, number 15. An old block of flats, peeling paintwork. Andrew rang the nearest doorbell. A man in his fifties opened, looking grim. — Who do you want? — I’m looking for Mr Smith. I drive his bus… — Oh, the chap from flat twelve, — the neighbour’s face softened. — He’s in hospital. Had a stroke a week ago. Andrew’s heart dropped. — Which hospital? — The City Hospital, up on Florence Nightingale Avenue. Bad at first, but they say he’s slowly improving. After his shift, Andrew called in at the hospital, found the ward, and asked the nurse. — Mr Smith? Yes, he’s with us. And you are…? — A friend… — Andrew said awkwardly. — Sixth bed. But don’t tire him. Mr Smith lay by the window, pale, awake. On seeing Andrew, he looked puzzled, then his eyes widened. — Andrew? You? How did you…? — Well, I went looking, — Andrew said, setting a bag of fruit on the table. — When you didn’t come, I got worried. — You… worried about me? — Mr Smith’s eyes brimmed. — But I’m no one special… — Now, don’t say that. You’re my regular. I’ve grown used to you; I look forward to seeing you. Mr Smith lay silent, staring up. — I haven’t been to the cemetery in ten days — first time in over a year and a half, — he murmured. — I broke my promise… — Oh now, she’ll understand — your wife, I mean. Illness is illness. — I don’t know… — he shook his head. — I used to visit her every day, tell her the news, about the weather… Now I’m stuck here, and she’s all alone… At that, Andrew knew what he had to do. — Would you like me to go for you? I could visit your wife’s grave, pass on your news — let her know you’ll be back soon… Mr Smith turned towards him, hope and disbelief wrestling in his tired eyes. — You… you’d do that? For someone you hardly know? — Hardly! — Andrew smiled. — Eighteen months of early-morning bus rides? You’re family by now. The next day, on his day off, Andrew went to the cemetery. He found her grave — a photo on the headstone, a kind-looking woman. “Anne Smith, 1952–2024.” He felt awkward, but the words came anyway: — Hello, Mrs Smith. I’m Andrew, your husband’s bus driver. He’s in hospital at the moment, but he’s recovering, and sends his love. He promised he’ll visit again soon… He added how devoted Mr Smith was, how much he missed her. He felt a bit silly, but knew somehow it was the right thing. Back at the hospital, he found Mr Smith much brighter. — I went, — Andrew said simply. — Passed on your message. — And how… how is she? — the old man’s voice trembled. — Everything’s spotless — someone’s left fresh flowers, probably the neighbours. She’s waiting for you, Mr Smith. Mr Smith closed his eyes and wept quietly. — Thank you, son. Thank you… Two weeks later, Mr Smith was discharged. Andrew picked him up outside the hospital. — Shall I see you tomorrow? — Andrew asked as he dropped him off. — You will, — Mr Smith nodded. — Eight o’clock sharp, like always. And he was, next morning in his usual spot. But now, something between driver and passenger had changed — it was more than just a bus journey. — Tell you what, Mr Smith, — Andrew said one day, — how about I take you at weekends in my car? Just as a friend. My wife says if you’re as lovely as you seem, it’s only right to help. — Oh, I couldn’t ask you— — You don’t need to. We’d miss you otherwise. So it became their tradition. Weekdays — the bus; weekends, Andrew drove him himself. Sometimes his wife came too — they all became friends. — You know, — Andrew said to his wife one evening, — I used to think passengers were just passengers. But every face on that bus is a life, a story. — Exactly, — his wife smiled. — I’m glad you noticed. And Mr Smith told them, one day, — After Anne died, I thought life was over. I thought nobody noticed me. Turns out people do care. And that means the world. *** What do you think? Have you ever seen ordinary people perform extraordinary acts of kindness?