I Looked After My Grandchildren for Free – Then My Daughter Gave Me a List of Criticisms About My Parenting – “Oh Mum, not again! You’ve given them those supermarket gingerbread biscuits! We agreed – only gluten-free cookies from the bakery on Queen’s Road,” Marina’s voice rang with outrage, as if I’d committed a major crime rather than serving up a snack for two five-year-olds. “They’re full of sugar and trans fats! Do you want them breaking out in rashes again? Or bouncing off the walls before bed?” Jean sighed heavily, brushing crumbs from the table into her palm. She wanted to say that the kids had outright refused the overpriced gluten-free biscuits from the local artisan bakery, calling them “cardboard,” and had wolfed down regular gingerbread as if it was nectar from the gods. But she kept silent. Lately, she’d learned it was easier not to stoke already simmering tensions. Her only daughter, Marina, stood in the kitchen in a sharp business suit, anxiously checking the time on her phone. She was late for an important meeting, but the nutrition lecture clearly took precedence over London’s morning traffic. “Marina, they were starving after the park,” Jean tried, rinsing mugs under the tap. “They barely touched their soup, just picked at their main. They needed a bit of energy.” “Energy, Mum, comes from complex carbs, not sugar!” her daughter snapped, reaching for her handbag. “Alright, I have to go. Tim will be back by 8. Please make sure they finish their speech therapy homework – and no screen time! I’ll be checking the browser history.” The door shut behind her, leaving a waft of expensive perfume and heavy tension in the air. Jean collapsed into a chair, feeling her lower back ache. Sixty-two years old, and two years ago she’d given up her job as chief accountant at a small business to help out with her grandsons, Ben and Charlie, at her daughter’s insistence. “Why bother working, Mum?” Tim, her son-in-law, had persuaded her. “We’ve got this mortgage, we’re both building our careers. We need reliable childcare. Can’t trust a stranger with the boys – and good nannies cost a fortune nowadays. This way, you’re with your grandkids and we can focus on work.” At the time, it sounded fair – even appealing. Jean adored her grandsons, and to be honest, her job had become tiring. She imagined blissful afternoons in the park, storybooks at bedtime, crafts at the kitchen table. The reality, of course, was quite different. Now, her working day began at 7 a.m. She crossed half the city from her little flat to Marina and Tim’s new build in Chiswick, arriving before the boys woke up. Her daughter and son-in-law left early, returned late; all domestic chores, ferrying kids to their clubs and clinics, all fell on Grandma. Ben was a boisterous five-year-old, Charlie a headstrong three-year-old deep in the “I’ll do it!” phase. That evening, as always, Jean built Lego castles with the boys, coached Ben on his speech therapy (“s” versus “sh” woes), and coaxed them through dinner – broccoli lost once again to sneaky sausages she’d boiled up against orders. After bathtime and bedtime stories, she was barely upright when Tim came home, barely grunting a “thanks” as he grabbed a snack from the fridge. On the bus home, city lights flickering by, Jean realised even “thank you” had become automatic, like she was some kind of washing machine completing a cycle, not a family member. No one asked if she was okay, whether her blood pressure – which had been up-and-down all week with the weather – was any better. Things reached a head that weekend. Normally, Jean stayed home, catching up on sleep or her own errands – but Friday night, Marina rang. “Mum, we need a family meeting on Sunday. Come for lunch – we need to talk seriously,” her daughter said firmly. Jean’s stomach dropped. Nothing good ever followed that tone. That Sunday, she arrived, homemade cheese and onion quiche in hand – Tim’s favourite – but the atmosphere was all wrong: formal, tense, the kids banished to watch Disney Plus while the adults sat at the table with laptops and notepads. “We’ve reviewed the past six months,” said Marina, avoiding eye contact. “We need to systematise the boys’ upbringing. There are things we’re quite unhappy about.” “We’ve drawn up a list,” Tim chimed in, spinning his laptop so she could see their Excel spreadsheet with bullet points and colour-coded highlights. “First: Diet,” Marina began, pen-tapping her notepad. “You systematically break their meal plan. Gingerbread, sausages, homemade bakes – it’s a carb overload! We need you to stick exactly to the menu on the fridge. No exceptions.” “They won’t eat turkey burgers, Marina – they’re children!” Jean tried to protest. “Second: Routine,” Tim interrupted. “Last week Charlie went to bed at 9.30, not 9. That’s unacceptable.” Jean recalled that night: Charlie had tummy ache, she’d soothed him for half an hour, singing lullabies until he dozed off. “Third: Education,” Marina continued. “Ben still confuses colours in English. Are you using the flashcards I bought? He needs structured cognitive exercises, not just cars and blocks.” “Marina, he’s only five! Can’t he just be a little boy? We read, we count conkers in the park…” “Conkers – that’s outdated,” her daughter sniffed. “And discipline – you let them walk all over you. You spoil them. You need to be firmer. No treats, no cuddles for tantrums, timeouts if necessary. You’re too soft. It’s unprofessional.” The word “unprofessional” stung hardest. “And finally,” Tim concluded, “we’ve drawn up a schedule and KPIs… you know, performance indicators. We’ll review progress weekly. If their English doesn’t improve, we’ll need to hire a private tutor – that’s an extra expense we hoped to avoid.” Jean stared at her quiche cooling on the side, at her family’s severe faces, and realized she was just an unpaid contractor failing her targets. “So, that’s a list of grievances?” she asked quietly. “Mum, don’t put it like that – just growth opportunities,” Marina grimaced. “We want an organised approach.” Jean rose. Years of senior accounting had taught her to keep her composure, even during ugly audits. “You want a professional teacher, dietitian, chef, cleaner – with fluent English, Montessori training, and military-style discipline. Well, let’s talk contracts. A nanny like that in London is £15 an hour, minimum – twelve hours a day, five days a week. That’s £900 a week, nearly £4,000 a month. Not counting overtime, cooking, and cleaning for the whole family.” Tim laughed nervously. “Jean, you’re their grandma! Not a contractor!” “A Granny,” she replied icily, “is someone who spoils her grandkids at weekends, brings treats, and tells stories – on her own terms. Someone forced to abide a list of demands and KPIs is a paid worker. And paid work deserves wages. We abolished slavery long ago.” “Mum, how can you talk about money? We’re family!” Marina gasped. “I’ve done this for love, but love isn’t valued here. You’ve made it transactional. So – I’m resigning. Find yourselves a proper professional nanny for your spreadsheet.” The shock on their faces was plain. That week, Jean ignored their calls, caught up on sleep, met old friends for lunch, bought herself a new dress for the first time in years, and finally read the book she’d had on her bedside for ages. Eventually, Marina caved. They’d found a new nanny – a stern woman who charged a fortune, ate organic-only, watched the kids like a boot-camp sergeant. The boys, missing Grandma’s warmth, wilted under strict rules. Marina looked exhausted, Tim exasperated. When Jean visited, both daughter and son-in-law finally admitted: “We were idiots. Please come back. No more lists. Just love them. Spoil them with gingerbread. Let them watch Winnie the Pooh. We’ll pay! More than the nanny!” Jean shook her head. “No money. I’m not hired help. I’ll do three days a week, 9 to 6. No evenings, no weekends. I raise them my way, no interference. One cross look or complaint – I’m gone. I help, but I will not be your housekeeper.” They agreed – and fired the nanny. Sometimes, the only way for people to appreciate you is to walk away and let them see the difference. Love, with healthy boundaries, makes a family stronger. Leave the spreadsheets at the office – every granny has her own methods, tried and true, far richer than any KPI.

I was looking after my grandchildren for free, and then I got handed a list of grievances about my childcare.

Well, here we go again, Mumyouve given them those shop-bought ginger biscuits! We agreed, only the gluten-free cookies from that bakery on Kings Road, Alices voice rang with outrage, as if Id committed some criminal act instead of just giving five-year-olds their afternoon snack. Those biscuits are full of sugar and trans fats! Do you want the boys breaking out in a rash again, or bouncing off the walls before bedtime?

Margaret sighed heavily, brushing crumbs from the table into her hand. She wanted to explain that the gluten-free stuffwhich cost more than a decent dinner outwas firmly rejected by the boys as chewy old cardboard, while ordinary ginger biscuits disappeared in record time. But she held her tongue. Lately, Margaret had taken the path of silence. It stopped the ever-present arguments from turning into blazing rows.

Alice, her only daughter, stood in the kitchen in a sharp office suit, glancing anxiously at her watch. She was late for a meeting, but the lecture on nutrition still took precedence over rush hour on the North Circular.

They were starving after their walk, Alice, Margaret tried gently as she washed the mugs. They barely touched the soup, and moved their veg around the plate. They needed something.

Energy is meant to come from complex carbs, Mother, not refined sugar! cut in Alice, slinging her bag over her shoulder. Anyway, I need to go. Bill will be home at eight. Please make sure they finish their speech therapy worksheetsand no screens! Ill be checking the tablets browser history.

The front door slammed, heavy with the scent of expensive perfume and a palpable tension. Margaret sank onto a chair, feeling the ache growing in her lower back. She was sixty-two. Two years ago, shed finally given in to Alice and her husband, Bill, quitting her role as head accountant at a modest but steady firm, all to help out with Harry and Ben.

Whats the point of working, Mum? Bill had said back then. Were both earning to pay the mortgage, building careersits peace of mind having you here. We dont want a nanny, never know who you might get, and the good ones cost a fortune. With you here, its family and we know the boys are safe, and you dont need to be packed into a bus every morning.

It had seemed quite reasonable at the time. Margaret adored her grandsons, and numbers had started blurring for her anyway. She dreamed of gentle afternoons: park strolls, reading fairy tales, crafts at the table. The reality was a rather different story.

Her working day now began at seven, travelling from her small flat in the older part of town over to Alice and Bills place in their swanky new development, just in time to wake the boys. Alice and Bill left early, and returned late. All the household adminthe clubs, swimming lessons, GP appointments, therapy assignmentslanded squarely on Grandmas shoulders. Harry was a noisy, exuberant five-year-old; Ben, a wilful three-year-old who insisted on doing it all by myself.

That evening, life ran its usual course. Margaret helped them build a castle with blocks, trying to slip in a speech therapy exercise about the S and SH sounds. Dinner was another pitched battlebroccoli lost, sausages won, and Margaret only boiled them because those hungry eyes broke her heart. Then came bath-time, story-time, bedtime. When Bills key finally scraped in the lock, Margaret was running on fumes.

Bill, a tall, broad man with the distracted air of someone forever behind on emails, wandered into the kitchen, nodded at his mother-in-law, and made straight for the fridge.

Alice not back yet? he asked, talking around a mouthful of cheese sandwich.

Shes running late, big meeting apparently, Margaret replied, packing her bag. Id best dash or Ill miss the last busdont fancy shelling out for a cab at those prices.

Yeah, of course, cheers Margaret, mumbled Bill, eyes glued to his phone. Shut the door tight, the lock sticks.

Margaret travelled home on a nearly empty double-decker, watching the citys lights flick past, feeling strangely invisible. Even thanks sounded perfunctory, as if shed become a household appliance, expected to finish its cycle and switch itself off. Nobody ever asked how she was, if her blood pressure had settled, though the unpredictable weather lately had set it swinging.

Things reached a boiling point one weekend. Normally, Margaret kept her Saturdays and Sundays to herselfcatching up on sleep, doing her own errands. But that Friday, Alice rang.

Mum, quick one, Alices tone forcedly bright. Were having a family meeting on Sunday. Do come for lunchwe need a grown-up conversation.

Margarets heart dropped. That did not bode well. Did they have money worries? Health scares?

Sunday, she arrived with a homemade cheese and onion pieBills favourite. But the air at Alice and Bills was stiff, formal. The boys had been packed off to watch cartoons (normally strictly rationed), and the adults sat at the big table.

Bill opened his laptop; Alice put a notebook in front of her. Margaret set the pie to one side, where it looked completely out of place amid electronics and grim faces.

Mum, weve gone over the last six months, Alice started, not quite meeting her mothers gaze. We think its time we make childrearing more systematic. There are concernsfrankly, things that dont meet our expectations.

What do you mean? Margaret managed, her hands turning cold.

Weve made a list, Bill said, flipping the laptop round. Its nothing personal. Just constructive criticismfor process improvement.

Margaret squinted. The spreadsheet had columns, rows, colour-coded highlights.

Here we go, Alice said, ticking off entries in her notebook. First, food. You regularly ignore the boys diet. Biscuits, sausages, pies. Thats wrecking their carb count. We need you to stick to the menu I post on the fridgeno exceptions.

But they simply wont eat the turkey meatballs, Alice! Theyre children, not prisonersfood should be a joy.

Tastes are formed in childhood, Bill chipped in, like a management consultant. Second: routine. Last week, Ben didnt get into bed till 8.30. Thats half an hour late, and sleep patterns must be enforced. Melatonin cant reset itself, you know.

Margaret rememberedBens stomach had hurt, shed stroked his back and sung softly until he drifted off.

Third: education, Alice pressed on. Harry still gets colours muddled in his English workbook. Arent you using the flash cards I bought? He should be progressing with the Early Learners method, not just pushing cars around.

Alice, hes five! Margaret objected, exasperated. He deserves a childhood. We read and count things in the park, but

Pine cones are archaic, Alice waved her off. And the main point: discipline. You spoil them. They walk all over us. You need to be firmerpunishments, no more sweets, use the naughty step. Youre too soft, and its unprofessional.

That word, unprofessional, stung more sharply than anything yet.

And finally, Bill wrapped up, Weve drafted a rota and some KPIskey performance indicators. Progress in English will be reviewed weekly. If its lacking, well have to hire a private tutoran extra cost wed hoped to avoid with your help.

Margaret sat in silence, looking at her cooling pie, at her family suddenly transformed into a pair of bosses reading out a P45. Images raced through her headhauling the sledge through unshovelled snow, comforting a feverish child through the night while Alice was away, scrubbing the floor without being asked, skipping a new winter coat to buy educational toys. All done with love, shed thought. All for family.

Now it turned out, she was just an unpaid outsource worker failing her KPIs.

Silence stretched long, interrupted only by the faint cartoon in the next room.

So, a list of complaints? Margaret said quietly, her voice steady.

Mum, dont be dramatic. Points for development, Alice said, wincing. We just want consistency.

I understand, Margaret nodded. She stood up, slow and deliberate. Bill, email me that file, please. Id like to study it.

Of course, right away, Bill said, encouraged she might play along.

Now, you listen to me, Margaret straightened her back. Years as head accountant had taught her to stay composed, even through the trickiest of audits. You want a professional: tutor, chef, housekeeperplus English, plus early years techniques, plus an iron will. Thats fine. But youve missed one point.

Whats that? Alice couldnt help herself.

Contract and payment, Margaret said plainly. Lets crunch the numbers. A nanny-governess in London these days? At least £15£20 an hour. Im here from eight to eight, five days. Thats twelve hours a day, sixty a week. Sixty times £15: thats £900 weekly. Or over £3,500 a month. And thats the low end, not counting late nights or cooking for everyone.

Bill gave a nervous laugh. Margaret, come off it! Youre their grandma, not an employee.

A grandma, Bill, bakes pies at weekends, spoils the kids, reads bedtime stories when she wants. Someone handed a job spec, a rota, and a list of KPIs? Thats an employee. And employees get paid. We abolished slavery a long time ago.

Alice jumped up. Mum! Why are you making this about money? Were family! We thought you helped because you loved the boys.

I love them more than anything, Margarets eyes shimmered, but she held firm. Thats why Ive spent two years knackering myself, lugging prams and putting up with lectures. I put up with it all because I thoughtyou needed me. But today, you made it clear: Im not help, Im a failing service provider. So, I resign.

What? they gasped.

What I said. From tomorrow, find a professional to fit your spreadsheet. Serve broccoli, teach Mandarin in their sleep, put them to bed by the stopwatch. Ill return to being GrandmaSundays only. Ill bring ginger biscuits.

She shouldered her bag, straightened her scarf.

Eat the pie. Goodbye.

Margaret left them stunned in silence. Only as the door clicked behind her did she hear Alices strangled cry: What are we supposed to do now?!

Her journey home felt lighter than air, a weight dropping away from her shoulders. That night, for the first time in years, she didnt prep meals for the week, or check tomorrows errands for two children and three adults. She made a pot of herbal tea, watched an old black-and-white film, and switched off her phone.

The next week brought a barrage of calls. Alice alternated between offended and pleading; Bill tried to play the sympathy card. Margaret stood firm.

My blood pressures up, Alice. Doctors ordersrest, she lied, stretching out on her sofa, book in hand. No, I cant tomorrow, Im booked for the hairdresser. Besides, Im out at the theatre with Sheila. Youll manage, youre clever people.

She really did go to the theatre with her old colleague. Bought herself a new dress. She actually slept through the night. The world seemed brighter, the colours less faded.

Bits of news drifted in: first they juggled days off, then, evidently, they hired a nanny.

A month later, Margaret, as promised, came round one Sunday. The house was chaosshoes flung everywhere, dishes piled high. The boys hurled themselves at her like puppies.

Gran! Grans here! Harry nearly knocked her over in hugs, Ben clung to her leg.

A woman appearedstocky, unsmiling, with the glare of a prison guard.

Harry, Ben! Off! Back right now! she barked so sharply, Margaret jumped.

HelloIm their granny, Margaret offered.

Gillian Turner, nanny, the woman said flatly. No coddling, please. Were on a scheduleeducational play now.

The boys trudged to their room, faces downcast, as though off to hard labour. Alice emerged from the bedroom, wan and nervy.

Hi, Mum, she muttered, the old bossiness gone. Tea? Gillian, would you make us some?

Not part of my duties, Gillian replied, not looking up. I mind the children, not housework. If you want tea, do it yourself. And, Alice, you still owe me for last weeks overtimeI stayed fifteen minutes late on Wednesday.

Alice ground her teeth and boiled the kettle herself.

Conversation limped along. Margaret saw how tightly wound Alice was, noticed the nervous twitch in Bills eye as he hunched over his laptop, even at the weekend. Gillian policed every giggle, every fidget.

She all right? Margaret whispered, when Gillian popped to the loo.

Agency sent her, Alice sighed. Premier Staff. Comes recommended, speaks three languages, has references from aristocrats.

Expensive?

Eighty thousand a year, plus food, Bill muttered, not looking up. Eats us out of house and home. Demands only organic produce.

You wanted professionalism, Margaret couldnt resist. You got the full list.

Alice dropped her head and began to sobquiet, hopeless, mascara running.

Mum, its horrible. She drills them like theyre in bootcamp. Ben started wetting the bed again. Harry begs to come to yours. No cartoonsnot even the educational ones. She sits glued to her phone while they do jigsaws. Cant risk firing herwere on our third in a month, at least shes sober and honest. But were bleeding money, we maxed the credit card.

Margaret felt her heart meltthe one shed tried to harden this past month. But she knew: if she just rolled over now, it would repeat itselfnew demands, fresh Excel sheets, the same lack of appreciation.

Dont cry, she passed Alice a tissue. Experience is costly, but worthwhile.

Mum, will you come back? Bill pleaded, looking as sheepish as shed ever seen him. We were idiots. Honestly. What were we thinking, treating our own mum like our employee? Im so sorry.

Alice nodded, sniffling. No more rosters. No more complaints. Feed them whatever you likeBiscuits, crisps, we dont care if theyre happy. Let them watch TV if it makes you smile. Name your pricewell pay you properly, I swear.

Margaret sipped her tea, letting the quiet settle. In the other room, Gillians voice boomed as she scolded Ben over a dropped block.

You wont pay me, she said finally. Im not an employee, Im a grandmother. Money just taints everything. And I wont work myself sick anymore.

She handed over a page shed drafted with her own conditions, predicting this conversation would come.

My way or not at all. Ill look after the boys three days a weekTuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, nine to six. No overtime. Evenings and weekends are mine. Mondays and Fridaysyoull manage. Use a temp nanny or flex your hours.

Deal! Bill jumped in.

Second, no more instructions about how I treat my grandchildren. I raised you, Aliceyou turned out fine. If a ginger biscuit means happiness, thats what theyll get. If I think a Winnie-the-Pooh cartoon will brighten their day, well watch it. If not, ring Gillian.

We love it, Mum, really we do, Alice managed a smile.

Lastlyrespect. If I hear one word about professionalism or see so much as a pout because I didnt wash upIm gone. Im here to be Grandma, not your cleaner.

Of course, Mum. Well hire a cleaner. Were sorry. Really.

Good. Now, go sack that dragon. It pains me to hear her shouting at Ben.

When Gillian packed her thingsstomping and demanding a severance bonus (which Bill paid without complaint)a blissful hush fell over the house.

Gran! Ben charged out and clung to Margaret. Is that lady gone? She was mean!

Shes gone, darling. Not coming back.

Will you bake pies with us? Harry asked, hopeful eyes wide.

We will. On Tuesdays. Today, Grandma will read for an hour, then go home. Grandma has a day off too, you know.

At the end of the day, Bill himself ordered Margaret a cabExecutive class. Alice packed her a bag of organic snacks theyd bought for Gillian. They stood in the doorway, saying goodbye as if she was off on an Arctic expedition.

As Margaret gazed out at the city lights from the comfort of the back seat, she knew challenges still lay ahead. Habits die hard; the household chaos would try to draw her back in. But now she had armour. She knew her worthand best of all, so did her family.

Sometimes the only way to be appreciated is to step back and let people reflect. Love is a gift, but healthy boundaries make that love stronger. Leave the spreadsheets to the offices. Grandmas have their own methods, proven by time and affectionnothing youll ever fit in a digital report.

Thank you for reading my story. If you enjoyed it, a like or a follow would mean the world to the author.