You’re Taking Advantage of Grandma—She Looks After Your Child but Won’t Even Watch Mine on Weekends There are times in life when we need a quick fix to a problem, just as Laura did. My son is now four years old. There’s no doubt he’s perfect for me. He’s not exactly well-behaved, but are any four-year-olds really angels? They all get up to mischief. Meanwhile, I’m expecting my second child—and that’s where everything began. When I went for my next antenatal appointment, I was sent straight to the hospital—there was cause for concern. No time for delays. The big question was: who would look after my son? My husband was away on a business trip, due back in ten days. My parents were both at work, and no other relatives were available. Then Grandma stepped in and offered to help—she said she’d watch my son until I was discharged. She’s seventy, and he’s energetic, so I didn’t know if she could manage, but what choice did I have? The plan was made. My parents work in the private sector, so they offered to look after their grandson in the evenings, and Grandma would take care of him during the day. It was decided. Still, I worried—after all, he’s my son, and I had no choice. I rang Grandma for updates, only to discover they’d found their own way together. The week flew by, and when my husband returned, he took over. Soon, I was due to come home. Then my sister rang in a rage, saying I’d taken advantage. Her daughter is two, and no matter how she begged, Grandma wouldn’t agree to mind her, even for a weekend, claiming the little one was just too young. ‘You’re spoiling Grandma!’ my sister accused. I explained: I was in a tricky situation—I couldn’t bring my son to hospital with me. I’d asked for my sister’s help, but she refused. Now she wanted to send her daughter to Grandma just so she could relax and take a break. There’s a big difference between leaving a two-year-old and a four-year-old with an elderly lady. Why not take her to her own grandparents? ‘They won’t look after her,’ she said. ‘I have to be on duty all the time.’ I think my sister’s got it wrong—two-year-olds and four-year-olds are worlds apart. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t leave my son with relatives, but my sister insists I’ve taken advantage of Grandma.

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 3 minViews 3

Youre taking advantage of Gran. She looks after your child but wont even keep mine at the weekends!

There come moments in life when you have to find a quick fix to a sudden problem. Thats precisely where Sophie found herself.

My son is now four, and lets be honesthes my pride and joy. Not exactly an angel (find me a child who is), more of a lovable rascal. Theres another little one on the way too. And thats what this is all about.

When I turned up for my latest antenatal appointment, it turned out there was something that required immediate attention. Straight to the hospital, no faffing about. Which left the crucial question: who could look after my whirlwind of a son?

My husband was away on business, gallivanting across Europe, and wasnt due back for ten days. My parents both work those long and mysterious private sector jobsno luck there. No other relatives jumping up for babysitting duties, either. So, my Gran, bless her, decided to step in. She said shed mind my son until I was discharged. I wasnt wholly convincedshes seventy, hes quicker than a caffeine-fuelled squirrelbut what choice did I have?

The plan was made. My parents promised to swoop in after work and take over, and Gran would handle the day shift. Crisis resolved, more or less.

Still, I was a bundle of nerves. Were talking about my son here. But needs must and all that. I rang Gran every hour for updatesapparently, they got on like a house on fire. The week breezed by, and my husband returned to take the helm.

Just as I was getting ready to leave hospital, my sister Emma rang up, huffing and puffing down the line. Her daughters just two, and no matter how she begged and pleaded, Gran simply wouldnt watch hereven for the weekend. Shes too tiny! Gran insisted.

Emma was nearly on her knees, desperate for Gran to babysit, but Gran held her ground. Youve exploited Gran! Emma shouted at me.

I was in a tough spot! I replied. Its not like I could take my son into hospital with me. I even asked you for help, remember? You said no. Now you want Gran to take your daughter for the weekend so you can put your feet up and catch up on Strictly Come Dancing? Its not the same! How can you leave a toddler that age with an old lady? She should be with her parents.

Well, her parents arent exactly queuing up to take her! Emma snapped. And I have to look after her all the time!

Honestly, I think Emmas being unfair. Theres a world of difference between a two-year-old and my four-year-old. If I had a choice, Id rather not foist my son on the family, either. But according to Emma, Ive completely stitched up poor Gran.

A Taste of Freedom – “We finished our renovations last autumn,” began Vera Ignatievna, starting her story. We spent ages picking wallpaper, argued ourselves hoarse over the bathroom tiles, and reminisced about how, twenty years ago, we dreamed of this very three-bedroom flat. “Well, there we have it,” my husband said contentedly as we celebrated the end of our renovation saga. “Now we can get our son married. Misha will bring home his wife, they’ll have children, and our home will finally be lively and filled with joy.” But his dreams weren’t to come true. Instead, our eldest daughter, Katie, arrived back with two suitcases and two kids. “Mum, I’ve got nowhere else to go,” she said, cancelling all our plans in an instant. Misha’s room went to the grandchildren. Fortunately, he didn’t complain, just shrugged: “It’s fine. I’ll have my own place soon.” His “own place” was my mother’s one-bedroom flat. Nicely renovated, previously rented to a young couple. Every month, a modest but important sum appeared in our account—our “safety net” in case my husband and I became old and helpless. Once, I spotted Misha and his fiancée Lara walking past that building, craning their necks in excitement, discussing something animatedly. I knew what they were hoping for, but I didn’t offer anything. Then, one day, I overheard: “Mrs Ignatievna, Misha proposed! We’ve even found a venue for the wedding! Just imagine—a real carriage, a live harpist, a summer terrace with guests out in the garden…” “And where will you live afterwards?” I couldn’t help but ask. “Such a wedding must cost a fortune!” Lara looked at me as if I’d asked about the weather on Mars. “We’ll stay at yours for a bit. We’ll see.” “We already have Katie and the children,” I said slowly. “It’ll be a hostel, not a home.” Lara pouted. “Yes. Maybe you’re right—it wouldn’t be ideal. We’ll look for a real hostel. At least there no one will pry into our souls.” That sharp, “no one will pry,” hit me hard. Was I prying? I just wanted to save them from a mistake. Later, I talked to Misha. My last chance. “Son, why do you need all this show? Just sign the papers quietly—put the money towards a deposit instead!” My voice trembled with emotion. He gazed out the window, jaw set. “Mum, why do you celebrate each wedding anniversary at the ‘Golden Dragon’? You could have a cheaper dinner at home.” I had no answer. “See,” he smirked, “you have your tradition. We want ours.” He compared our modest family dinner every five years to a half-million-pound extravaganza! In his eyes, I saw not a son but a judge—accusing us of hypocrisy. We allow ourselves everything but give him nothing. He forgot that mum and dad are still paying off his car loan. That safety net—he never thought about it. And now he wanted this wedding! What a wedding. In the end, son and future daughter-in-law were offended, especially about the keys to my mother’s flat. *** One night, exhausted, I saw my reflection in the bus window—a tired, aged woman, clutching a heavy bag of groceries, fear in her gaze. And suddenly, with painful clarity, I knew: I do everything out of…fear. Fear of being a burden. Fear the children will leave. Fear of the future. I’m not denying him the flat because I’m mean, but because I’m afraid—afraid I’ll be left with nothing. I force him to “struggle”, then undermine him by paying his bills—worried he’ll fail and be upset. I demand adult behaviour, yet treat him as a child—incapable and clueless. But he and Lara just want to start life beautifully. With a carriage and a harp. Foolish, extravagant—but that’s their right. If they pay for it themselves. First, I arranged for the tenants to move out. A month later, I called Misha: “Come over. We need to talk.” They arrived, anxious, expecting a battle. I set out tea, and placed the keys to my mother’s flat on the table. “Take them. Don’t get too excited—it’s not a gift. The flat is yours for a year. During that time, decide: mortgage, or stay on new terms. I’ll lose a year’s rent, but it’s my investment—not in your wedding, but in your chance of being a family, not flatmates.” Lara’s eyes widened. Misha gazed at the keys, baffled. “Mum… What about Katie?” “She’ll get her own surprise. You’re grown-ups now. Your life is your responsibility. We’ll be here simply as parents who love, but don’t rescue.” The silence was deafening. “And the wedding?” Lara asked, uncertain. “The wedding?” I shrugged. “Whatever you want. If you find the money for a harp, have a harp.” *** They left, and I was terrified. Terrified they’d fail. Or resent me forever. And yet, for the first time in years, I could truly breathe. Because I finally said “no”—not to them, but to my own fears. I let my son step fully into adult, complicated, independent life. Whatever it might be… *** Now let’s see it through the son’s eyes. Lara and I dreamed our wedding would be magical. But Katie’s divorce ended those plans. When Mum said a fancy wedding was pointless, something snapped inside. “Why do you celebrate each anniversary out? You could do it at home!” I snapped. I wanted to wound her. Yes, they bought me a car. But I never asked! Now they throw the loan repayments in my face. They renovated our flat—for us, they said. But now we can’t live there. Granny’s one-bed place is a “sacred cow”—more important than her only son’s marriage! So what now? How do we show the world—show ourselves—that we are a couple? Lara said quietly, “I have nothing to give you. My parents can’t help—they’ve got a mortgage.” “You give me yourself,” I said, trying to console her. But I was angry—not with her, but the unfairness. Why does it all fall on my parents? And why do they help with a bitterness, as if every pound spent is another nail in their coffin? This help stings with guilt. Unspoken grievances swirled in the air. Suddenly, the phone rang. Mum’s voice was strange, firm. “Come over. We need to talk.” We went, dreading it. Lara squeezed my hand. “She might refuse to help with the wedding,” she whispered. “Maybe,” I nodded. *** On the table—my grandmother’s flat keys. The ones from my childhood. “Take them,” said Mum. Her short speech was revolutionary: one year, a decision, no more “wallet and background.” Our old excuse—“nowhere to live”—vanished, our hope of “parents will fix it”—gone. I took the keys—they felt heavy and cold. In that moment, I saw truth: We always wanted things, were offended, but never really spoke to our parents: “Mum, Dad, we get your fears. Let’s discuss how we move forward without tearing you apart?” No. We just waited for them to guess our wishes and fulfil them—smiling, unconditionally, like childhood. “The wedding?” asked Lara, uncertain. “Your wedding?” Mum shrugged, “If you find a harp, have a harp.” We stepped outside. I fingered the keys in my pocket. “What now?” asked Lara—not just about the flat. “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Now it’s our problem…” In this new and frightening responsibility, there was something wild—a pure freedom. The first step: deciding if we really need a carriage and a harp. Traditions are fine, but should be built on more than just one extraordinary day… *** And how did it end? Misha and Lara’s adult life began the very next day. Finally, together! Living in their own flat. It’s not theirs yet, but still. Small, but cosy. Fresh renovations. No one else! At first, guests every day—because, after all, freedom! A month later, an unexpected shared itch—they wanted a dog! Not a little one—a big one! Turns out Lara always dreamed of one, but her mum never allowed. Misha had a dog once, years ago—it ran away, breaking his heart. And so the final piece of their happiness appeared quickly—a retriever named Lexus. Three months old, immediately running the show: scratching the corners, chewing furniture, having accidents everywhere. When Vera Ignatievna visited, she was shocked—no one had told her there was a new resident. “Misha! Lara! How could you? Didn’t even ask!” Vera nearly cried inspecting the flat. “You need to watch a dog like this all the time and he’s left alone all day! Of course he’ll ruin things. And so much fur! Are you even cleaning? The smell! No! You need to give him back! Tomorrow!” “Mum,” said Misha, annoyed, “you gave us the flat for a year. Will you tell us how to live? Should I return the keys?” “Not at all,” Vera jumped in. “My word is my bond—a year is a year. But you must return the flat exactly as you received it. Got it?” “Got it,” they replied together. “And don’t expect me before then. I don’t want to see this.” *** Mum kept her word—she didn’t visit. Rarely called. Four months later, Misha came home—they’d split up. He spent ages complaining: Lara was a bad housekeeper, cooked poorly, ignored the puppy, didn’t walk him. They had to return Lexus to the breeder. Not easy—took a week to convince. They’d bought dog food for three months, as per the breeder’s rules. Not cheap! “Did you rush things with Lara, son?” Vera asked, hiding a smile. “You wanted a carriage and a harp…” “A wedding? Mum, don’t be silly. Feel free to rent out granny’s flat.” “Why? Stay there, you’re used to it?” “No, I’d rather be home,” Misha replied. “Unless you object?” “I’m always ‘for it’,” Vera laughed. “Especially now the place is empty again after Katie and the kids left…”

03

The Woman Walked Out, Leaving Her Husband and Children Behind, and Two Days Later Received a Letter After Coming Home from Work, the Father Chose to Watch the Football Match in Peace, Ignoring Household Chores and Parenting Duties—He Didn’t Want to Put the Screaming Kids to Bed But That Evening, Everything Changed: With a Slam of the Door, His Wife Lost Patience and Left, Leaving the Children with Him. The Tranquil World of a Man Sipping Beer on the Sofa Was Suddenly Turned Upside Down. Here’s the Letter the Husband Wrote to His Wife Days Later: “My Darling, We argued a few days ago. I came home, worn out. It was 8:00 p.m. and all I wanted was to stretch out on the sofa and watch the game. You were in a foul mood and visibly exhausted. The kids were fighting and screaming as you tried to put them to bed. I turned the volume up to drown out the noise. ‘It wouldn’t kill you to help out a bit and pitch in with the kids, would it?’ you asked, lowering the volume. In exasperation, I replied: ‘I was at work all day so you could stay home and play with dolls.’ That started our argument, and the accusations flew. You cried because you were tired and angry. I said many things I regret. You shouted you couldn’t take it anymore. Then you left, leaving me with the children. I had to feed them and put them to bed by myself. The next day you didn’t come back. I took time off work and stayed home with the kids. I went through all the tantrums and tears. I spent the day rushing around the house, not even having time for a shower. I was home all day and didn’t speak to a single adult. I didn’t get a chance to sit down for a meal—looking after the kids never ended. I was so tired, I could have slept for 20 hours straight, but that’s impossible, because a child wakes up screaming every three hours. I lived without you for two days and a night. I realised everything. I realised how tired you are. I understood: being a mum is a constant sacrifice. I get it now—it’s much harder than sitting in an office for ten hours making major financial decisions. I realised you gave up your career and financial independence to be there for the kids. I realised how tough it is when financial security depends on your partner. I realised the sacrifice when you turn down outings with friends, or a trip to the gym. You can’t do what you love or even get a good night’s sleep. I understand how it feels to be stuck at home with the kids, missing out on the world. I understand why you feel insulted when my mum criticises your parenting. Nobody knows the kids like their mother. I realised mums carry the greatest responsibility in society, yet get the least recognition or praise. I’m not writing this just to say how much I miss you. I never want another day to go by without saying this: ‘You are incredibly brave, you do an amazing job, and I admire you!’ The role of wife, mother, and homemaker—though it’s the most important in society—is sadly, the least appreciated. Please share this letter with your friends, so we can finally start acknowledging the most vital job in the world—the job of being a mum.”

04

The Key in His Hand Rain drummed monotonously against the window of Michael’s flat, like a metronome ticking toward the end. He sat hunched on the edge of a sagging single bed, as if trying to shrink, to become invisible to his own fate. His large hands, once strong and skilled from years at the factory, now lay helplessly in his lap. Every so often, his fingers clenched, a futile attempt to grasp something intangible. He stared not just at the wall, but at the faded wallpaper as if reading a map of his hopeless routes: from NHS clinic to private diagnostic centre. His gaze was washed out, like an old black-and-white film stuck on the same frame. Another doctor, another patronising “Well, what do you expect at your age?” He didn’t get angry. Anger requires energy and he had none left. Only weariness remained. The pain in his back was more than a symptom — it had become his entire landscape, a backdrop for every movement and thought, a white noise of helplessness drowning out everything else. He did everything prescribed: took the pills, rubbed in creams, lay on cold physiotherapy tables, feeling like a broken machine left in a junkyard. All the while he simply waited. Passively, almost religiously, he waited for someone — the state, an ingenious doctor, or a clever professor — to finally throw him a lifeline as he slowly sank into the quicksand. He peered at the horizon of his life but saw only the grey drizzle outside. Michael’s willpower, once enough to solve any problem at the factory or home, was now reduced to a single function: endure, and hope for a miracle. Family… He’d had one, but it evaporated, suddenly and completely. Time slipped by unnoticed. First his daughter left — clever Katie, off to London for a better life. He didn’t begrudge her. “Dad, I’ll help you as soon as I’ve settled,” she promised over the phone. It didn’t matter. Then his wife was gone too. Not just to the shops — forever. Rachel was consumed quickly by a merciless cancer, discovered too late. Michael was left with his aching back and a silent reproach at still being alive. She, his rock, his spark, his Rach, faded in three months. He cared for her as best he could. Until her cough grew ragged and her eyes lost that escaping twinkle. The last thing she said, clutching his hand in the hospital, was “Hang in there, Mike…” He didn’t. He broke completely. Katie called, urged him to come live in her rented flat, coaxing him. But what for? He’d only be a burden. Besides, she had no plans to move back. Now only Rachel’s younger sister, Val, visited him. Once a week, like clockwork, bringing soup in a container, pasta with a homemade fish cake, and another packet of painkillers. “How are you, Mike?” she’d ask, taking off her coat. He nodded: “Alright.” They’d sit in silence as Val tidied his bedsit — as if making order in his things could tidy up his life. Then she’d leave behind a trace of unfamiliar perfume and the faint, physical sense of a duty discharged. He was grateful. And endlessly lonely. Not just physically alone — it was a cell built from his own helplessness, grief, and quiet resentment toward an unfair world. One particularly bleak evening, his wandering gaze landed on a key lying on the well-trodden carpet. He must have dropped it coming home from the surgery. Just a key. Nothing special. A lump of metal. He stared at it, as if it were remarkable, not simply a key. It lay there. Silent. Waiting. He remembered his grandfather, vividly, as if someone had snapped on the light in a dark room. Grandad Peter, with an empty sleeve tucked into his belt, would sit on a stool and, with one hand and a broken fork, tie his shoe laces. Slowly, deliberately, with a quiet victorious snort when it worked out. “Watch, Mikey,” he’d say, eyes twinkling with triumph over adversity. “There’s always a tool nearby. It might look like junk, but it’s an ally if you see it right.” As a boy, Michael thought that was just old man’s cheerful nonsense, a bedtime story for comfort. Grandad was a hero, and heroes could do anything. Michael was just ordinary, and his battle with pain and loneliness left no room for cutlery tricks. Now, looking at the key, that long-lost memory was no longer a comforting parable, but a reproach. Grandad hadn’t waited for help. He took what he had — a broken fork — and won. Not over pain, not over loss, but over helplessness. What had Michael taken? Nothing but bitter, passive waiting at the threshold of someone else’s charity. The thought jolted him. Right now, that simple key — that bit of metal ringing with his grandad’s words — seemed an unspoken command. He stood up — with the usual groan, ashamed even in an empty room. He shuffled two steps, reached down, joints cracking like shattered glass. Picked up the key. Tried to straighten — and the familiar white-hot knife of pain stabbed his back. He froze, gritting his teeth, until it eased. But this time, instead of collapsing back on the bed, he moved, cautious but determined, to the wall. He didn’t analyse. He just followed the urge. Turned his back to the wall. Pressed the flat end of the key against the wallpaper at the sorest spot. And gently, carefully, pushed his weight onto it. He wasn’t trying to “massage” or “treat” anything. This was no medical technique. It was just pressure. Blunt, deep, almost rude: pain pressed into pain, reality pressed into reality. He found a spot where the pressure didn’t bring a new spasm, but a strange, muffled relief — like something inside unclenched by a millimetre. He adjusted the key up, then down. Leaned again. Repeated. Every movement was slow, exploratory, listening to his body’s reply. It wasn’t therapy. It was a negotiation — and the key, not some fancy device, was the instrument. It was silly. He knew a key wasn’t a cure. But the next night, when pain surged again, he repeated the process. And again. He found points where pressure brought relief, as if he parted the crushing vice from within. Later, he used the doorframe for gentle stretching. The glass of water on the nightstand reminded him — drink, just drink. Water was free. Michael stopped waiting, hands folded. He used what he had: a key, a doorframe, the floor for easy stretches, and his own stubbornness. He started a notebook — not of pain, but of “key victories”: “Today managed to stand at the stove five minutes longer.” On the windowsill, he set three empty baked bean tins, planning to toss them. Instead, he filled them with soil from the patch outside his block. Stuck a few onion sets in each. Not a garden, but three little pots of life to tend. A month later, at his check-up, the doctor, scrutinising the new scans, raised an eyebrow. — There are changes. Have you been doing exercises? — Yes, Michael answered simply. — Using things to hand. He didn’t mention the key. The doctor wouldn’t understand. But Michael knew. Salvation didn’t sail in on a rescue ship. It lay on the carpet all along, as he stared at the wall, waiting for someone to turn the light on in his life. One Wednesday, when Val came with soup, she froze on the doorstep. There, in the windowsill tins, young green shoots flourished. The room smelled not of stale air and medicine, but something else, something hopeful. “You… what is this?” she managed, looking at him, steady on his feet by the window. Michael, carefully watering his seedlings, turned and said, “A garden.” Then, after a pause, “Would you like some for your soup? Homegrown, fresh.” That evening, she stayed longer than usual. They had tea, and instead of health complaints, he described the stairs in the building — how he now managed one flight a day. Salvation hadn’t come in the form of Doctor Dolittle with a magic elixir. It came as a key, a doorframe, a tin, and an ordinary set of stairs. It hadn’t banished pain, or loss, or age. It just placed tools in his hands — not to win the war, but to fight his small, daily battles. And it turns out, when you stop waiting for a golden staircase from heaven and notice the plain old concrete one beneath you, climbing it—slowly, surely, step by step—is life itself. And on the windowsill, in three tin cans, the juiciest green onions grew. The finest garden in the world.

04

📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

You’re Taking Advantage of Grandma—She Looks After Your Child but Won’t Even Watch Mine on Weekends There are times in life when we need a quick fix to a problem, just as Laura did. My son is now four years old. There’s no doubt he’s perfect for me. He’s not exactly well-behaved, but are any four-year-olds really angels? They all get up to mischief. Meanwhile, I’m expecting my second child—and that’s where everything began. When I went for my next antenatal appointment, I was sent straight to the hospital—there was cause for concern. No time for delays. The big question was: who would look after my son? My husband was away on a business trip, due back in ten days. My parents were both at work, and no other relatives were available. Then Grandma stepped in and offered to help—she said she’d watch my son until I was discharged. She’s seventy, and he’s energetic, so I didn’t know if she could manage, but what choice did I have? The plan was made. My parents work in the private sector, so they offered to look after their grandson in the evenings, and Grandma would take care of him during the day. It was decided. Still, I worried—after all, he’s my son, and I had no choice. I rang Grandma for updates, only to discover they’d found their own way together. The week flew by, and when my husband returned, he took over. Soon, I was due to come home. Then my sister rang in a rage, saying I’d taken advantage. Her daughter is two, and no matter how she begged, Grandma wouldn’t agree to mind her, even for a weekend, claiming the little one was just too young. ‘You’re spoiling Grandma!’ my sister accused. I explained: I was in a tricky situation—I couldn’t bring my son to hospital with me. I’d asked for my sister’s help, but she refused. Now she wanted to send her daughter to Grandma just so she could relax and take a break. There’s a big difference between leaving a two-year-old and a four-year-old with an elderly lady. Why not take her to her own grandparents? ‘They won’t look after her,’ she said. ‘I have to be on duty all the time.’ I think my sister’s got it wrong—two-year-olds and four-year-olds are worlds apart. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t leave my son with relatives, but my sister insists I’ve taken advantage of Grandma.