Yesterday I Quit My “Job” as Grandma—No Notice, No Paperwork: I Simply Set Down the Birthday Cake, Grabbed My Bag, and Walked Out of My Daughter’s House My “employer” was my own daughter—Charlotte. For years, I believed my pay was love. But yesterday I realised: in our family economy, my love isn’t worth much next to brand-new tablets. I’m Anne, I’m 64—retired nurse, living on a modest pension in the suburbs, but in reality I’m the driver, cook, cleaner, home tutor, counsellor, and on-call “ambulance” for two grandsons, Max (9) and Daniel (7). I’m what you’d call the village—the community that’s meant to raise a child, except now the “community” is usually one exhausted grandma surviving on coffee, valerian, and painkillers. Charlotte works in marketing; her husband, Andrew, in finance. Nice people—or so I kept telling myself. Nursery’s expensive, school is tricky, clubs are harder, so when Max was born, they looked at me like drowning people. “Mum, we can’t afford a nanny,” Charlotte sobbed. “And we don’t trust strangers. Only you.” So I agreed—not wanting to be a burden, I became the foundation. My days start at 5:45am: I make porridge (not the “quick” kind Denny refuses), get the kids ready, drive to school, clean floors I didn’t dirty, scrub toilets I didn’t use, ferry them to clubs—English, football, homework. I’m Grandma Routine. Grandma “No”. Grandma Rules. There’s also Susan—Andrew’s mum. She lives by the seaside in a new apartment with a facelift, a new car, endless holidays. She pops in twice a year; doesn’t know Max’s allergies, or how to calm Daniel when maths sends him into meltdown. She’s never scrubbed sick off a car seat. Susan’s Fun Grandma. Yesterday Max turned nine. I’d spent weeks preparing—little money, but I wanted my gift to be special. I’d spent three months knitting him a heavy blanket, his favourite colours, to help him sleep. I baked a real cake. At 4:15pm, Susan swept in—a cloud of perfume and shopping bags. “Where are my boys?!” My grandsons pushed past me to greet her. She perched on the sofa, pulled out the branded bag. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I got the newest thing,” she declared—two top-of-the-range gaming tablets. “No limits today—my rules!” The kids lost the plot. Cake and guests forgotten. Charlotte and Andrew beamed. “Is it really necessary…” Andrew said as he poured her wine. “You spoil them.” I stood there holding my blanket. “Max, I brought you something too…and I baked a cake.” He didn’t look up. “Not now, Grandma, I’m beating a level.” “I spent all winter knitting…” He sighed. “No one wants blankets anymore, Grandma. Susan brought tablets. Why are you always so boring—just food and clothes?” I glanced at Charlotte, waiting for her to help. She laughed awkwardly: “Mum, don’t be upset. He’s just a kid. Of course the tablet’s more fun. Susan’s the ‘fun grandma’. You’re…you know…you’re our everyday.” Everyday Grandma. Like everyday dishes, everyday traffic. Needed, but invisible. “I want Susan to live here,” Daniel announced. “She doesn’t make us do homework.” That’s when something snapped. I folded up the blanket, set it on the table, hung up my apron. “Charlotte, I’m done.” “What do you mean—cut the cake?” “No. I’m done.” I picked up my bag. “I’m not a machine you just switch off. I’m your mother.” “Mum, where are you going?” she cried. “My presentation’s tomorrow! Who’ll pick up the kids?” “I don’t know. Maybe sell a tablet. Or let Fun Grandma stay.” “But we need you!” I paused at the door. “That’s just it. You need me—but you don’t see me.” I walked out. This morning, I woke at 9. Made coffee. Sat on my porch. And for the first time in years, my back didn’t ache. I love my grandsons. But I refuse to live as free labour masquerading as “family”. Love isn’t self-destruction, and a grandma isn’t just a resource. If they want Grandma Routine, they better respect the routine. For now… maybe I’ll join a dance class. Isn’t that what “fun grandmas” do?

Yesterday, I quit my job.
No resignation letter, no obligatory two weeks notice.
I simply placed a plate with cake on the table, picked up my handbag and walked out of my daughters house.

My employer was none other than my own daughterHarriet.
For years, Id believed my wages were paid in love.
But just yesterday, I realised: in the economy of our family, my love is nothing in comparison to a shiny new tablet.

My name is Edith. Im sixty-four years old.
On paper, Im a retireea former nurseliving on a modest pension just outside Windsor.
In reality, Im also a chauffeur, cook, cleaner, tutor, counsellor, and the on-call paramedic for my two grandsons: William (nine) and Samuel (seven).

I am what people call village.
Remember it takes a village to raise a child?
Nowadays, that village is usually one frazzled grandmother, fuelled on tea, paracetamol, and the occasional biscuit.

Harriet works in advertising.
Her husband, Philip, is in banking.
They are decent peopleat least, so I tell myself.
Always tired. Always rushing. Nurserytoo dear. Schoolcomplicated. Clubseven trickier.
When William was born, they looked at me the way shipwrecked sailors look at a passing vessel.

Mum, we cant manage a nanny, Harriet sobbed. We just dont trust anyone but you.
So I agreed.
I didnt want to become a burden.
So I became a backbone.

My day begins at 5:45am.
I drive over, make porridgenot any porridge but proper porridge, because Samuel wont touch instant.
Get the children dressed. Drive to school.
Return to mop floors I didnt dirty, and clean bathrooms I hadnt used. Then school run. Clubs. English lessons. Football. Homework.

I am Grandmother Strict.
Grandmother No.
Grandmother Rules.

And then theres MargaretPhilips mum.
She lives in a shiny new flat by the seaside. Face lifts, a gleaming car, holidays to Spain.
She sees the grandchildren twice a year.
Margaret has no idea William has hayfever.
She couldnt calm Samuel when he cries over sums if her life depended on it.
Shes never had to scrub sick from the car seat.
Margaret is Grandmother Yes.

Yesterday was Williams ninth birthday.
Id prepared for weeks. Money is tight, but I wanted to give him something real.
It took me three months to knit him a weighty blanket in all his favourite colours, hoping itd help him sleep.
And I baked a proper cakeno packet mix.

At 4:15pm, the doorbell rang.
Margaret swept in, all perfume and purse, bags in each hand.
Where are my boys?!

The grandchildren nearly trampled me in their haste to reach her.
Granny!

She plonked herself on the sofa, pulling out a bag with a giddy logo.
I didnt know what you liked, so I got the newest thing, she chirped.
Two gaming tabletsthe priciest available.

No restrictions! she winked. Today, I make the rules!
The boys lost their minds.
Cake forgotten. Guests ignored.

Harriet and Philip beamed.
Mother, you spoil them, Philip said, pouring her wine.
I stood there, clutching the blanket.
William I have something for you too. And I made the cake.

He didnt look up.
Not now, Gran. Im on the next level.
But I spent the winter knitting
He sighed.
Gran, no-one wants blankets. Margaret gave us tablets! You never bring anything fun. Its always food or clothes.

I looked to my daughter.
Hoping for her intervention.
Harriet gave an awkward laugh.
Mum, dont be hurt. Hes just a child. Of course a tablet excites him more. Margarets the fun granny. Youre well youre everyday.
Everyday granny.
Like everyday crockery. A daily traffic jam. Needed, but unnoticed.

I wish Margaret lived here, Samuel added. She doesnt make us do homework.

And something snapped inside me.

I folded the blanket. Set it on the table. Untied my apron.

Harriet. Im done.

What do you mean? Shall I cut the cake?

No. I mean, Im done.

I picked up my bag.
Im not a gadget you switch off. Im your mother.

Mum, where are you going? she cried. Ive got a big presentation tomorrow! Wholl fetch the boys?

I havent a clue, I said. Perhaps you could sell a tablet. Or maybe let fun granny stay over.

Mum, we need you!
I paused in the doorway.

Thats just the trouble. You need me. But you dont even see me.

And then I left.

This morning, I woke at nine.
Brewed a strong cup of tea.
Sat on my porch.
And, for the first time in years, my back didnt ache.

I love my grandsons.
But I shant spend another moment living as unpaid staff cloaked in the word family.
Love isnt self-erasure.
And a grandmother isnt just a resource.

If they want Grandmother Strict, they can respect her rules.
Meanwhile
I think Ill sign up for dancing.
They say thats what fun grannies do.