Margaret slammed her teacup onto the saucer so hard that tea splattered across the lace tablecloth. The tinny voice of her neighbor, Doris, still crackled through the receiver.
“Margie, how can you be so cold? Your own grandchildren! Little Emily’s only four, and baby Thomas just turned two. What could they possibly have done to you?”
“Doris, don’t meddle,” Margaret replied crisply. “Everyone has their reasons.”
“What reasons could you have against children? They miss their nan!”
Margaret sighed and gazed out the window. Neighborhood children played in the courtyard, and for a moment, she saw Emily there, begging to be pushed on the swing, Thomas toddling after pigeons with clumsy delight.
“Doris, I haven’t the time. Goodbye.”
She hung up and walked to the kitchen. Faded crayon drawings still clung to the fridge—Emily’s “portrait of Grandma,” all looping lines and bright smudges. Margaret peeled them off and shoved them into a drawer.
The doorbell startled her. Through the peephole, she saw her son David holding grocery bags, exhaustion lining his face.
“Mum, could you let me in?”
She opened the door but stood firm in the threshold.
“If you’ve come to beg me to babysit again, you may turn right around.”
David set the bags down with a thud. “Mum, don’t be ridiculous. Olivia’s ill—proper fever. I’ve got work, and there’s no one else to mind the kids.”
“Then hire a nanny. You’ve got money to spare.”
“On such short notice? They’re your grandkids!”
“My grandkids?” Margaret gave a brittle laugh. “Funny—were they still my grandkids six months ago when you chucked me out of your flat?”
David rubbed his forehead. They’d had this argument too many times.
“Mum, we explained. We needed space. A two-bedroom’s cramped with four people.”
“Ah, space. And what’s a pensioner to do? Scrape by in rented rooms?”
“We help with rent—”
“Help? A pittance!” Her voice rose. “Twenty years I spent in your home. Raised your children while you and Olivia worked. Cooked, cleaned, scrubbed. And once they grew, what was I? Excess baggage to toss out!”
“Mum, what else could we have done?”
“Bought a three-bed! But no—new cars and holidays in Spain mattered more.”
David fell silent. He knew she was right, but admitting it stung.
“Listen,” he said quietly, “maybe we handled it poorly. But the kids—they adore you. They don’t deserve this.”
“And I adore them,” Margaret admitted. “Which is why I won’t let them see how their parents treat me. Better they remember a kind nan than watch you use me.”
“We’re not using you!”
“Aren’t you? Who rings every week begging for childcare? Who drops them off ill because nursery won’t take them? Who fobs them off on weekends when you fancy a break?”
David opened his mouth, but she cut in.
“And when my heart played up last month, who came? Doris! Not my son, not my daughter-in-law—a stranger.”
“Mum, we’ve jobs, the kids—”
“Everyone has jobs! Everyone has children! Decent people don’t forget their parents.”
She barred the doorway. David knew he wouldn’t sway her today.
“Fine,” he muttered, lifting the bags. “But this isn’t right. Emily keeps asking why Nan doesn’t love her anymore.”
The words struck deep, but Margaret didn’t flinch.
“Tell her Nan’s tired of being convenient.”
He left. She shut the door and leaned against it, throat tight. In the silent flat, she sank into her armchair—the same one where she’d once read Emily bedtime stories.
Six months in this rented flat on the outskirts, far from her old life. A kind landlady, but still—foreign walls, foreign smells.
It had begun over supper. David and Olivia whispering, thinking she couldn’t hear.
“Maybe it’s time Mum found her own place,” Olivia had said. “The kids need their own rooms.”
“I dunno,” David hedged. “She helps with them.”
“Helps? At what cost? Never satisfied, spoils them rotten, criticizes me. Let Emily watch telly till eleven last night against my rules.”
“Should we talk to her?”
“About what? She acts like we owe her. It’s our flat, our kids. We decide how to raise them.”
Margaret hadn’t slept that night. By breakfast, Olivia made it official.
“Margaret, we think it’s time you found your own place.”
She’d choked on her tea. “Excuse me?”
“You’re independent. We’re cramped.”
“Cramped? Twenty years wasn’t cramped?”
“The kids were little then. We needed help.”
“Ah. So while I was useful, I stayed. Now I’m surplus to requirements.”
“No one’s throwing you out,” David snapped. “Just suggesting separate living.”
“On what? My pension?”
“We’ll help,” Olivia promised. “At first.”
At first. As if decades of unpaid labor merited temporary charity.
“Fine,” Margaret had said. “I’ll find a place. But remember—with the flat goes the free babysitter.”
“What’s that mean?” David frowned.
“Just what it sounds like. No more Nan on call. You wanted independence? Enjoy it fully.”
The looks they exchanged were priceless. They hadn’t considered that.
“Mum, the kids love you,” David tried. “You’d not cut them off?”
“I’ll see them. Sundays. An hour or two. Like proper grandparents who live apart.”
“And if we’re ill? Or need a full day?”
“Hire help. Or use nursery.”
Olivia paled. “That’s pricey—”
“And my help was free,” Margaret reminded. “Twenty years of free help. I’d say that’s plenty.”
They’d argued, pleaded, claimed no offense meant. But Margaret stood firm. She’d been used. Tolerated while needed, discarded when not.
The flat came quickly. The landlady, an elderly widow, took pity on “the nan her family cast out” and lowered the rent.
Moving day was grim. David helped silently, guilt heavy on him. Emily had wept, clinging to her skirts.
“Don’t go, Nan!”
“Sweetheart, I’m not leaving. Just living elsewhere.”
“Will I see you?”
“Of course.”
But Emily never visited. Calls grew sparse, then stopped. Olivia, no doubt, discouraged ties with the “difficult” mother-in-law. David, ever obedient, complied.
The real pain came a month later. A frantic call from David.
“Mum, emergency! Olivia’s ill, I’ve meetings tomorrow. Can you mind the kids?”
“No.”
“What? They’re your grandkids!”
“Your children. You wanted independence—here it is.”
“But you love them!”
“I do. But I’ll not be your fallback after you tossed me aside.”
He’d yelled, called her cruel. She’d listened, recalling his shouts years ago when she’d dared correct Emily’s manners in front of Olivia.
The calls kept coming. Olivia sick. Nursery shut. Weekend escapes. Each time, Margaret refused.
“Mum, why be so childish?” David fumed. “We’re not enemies!”
“Not enemies. But not family either. Family doesn’t eject their elderly.”
“Ejected? We rented you a flat!”
“Did you? Or do I pay most of it from my pension and your pittance?”
He’d faltered. Their “help” was token—five hundred a month when rent was fifteen.
And now he was back, begging again.
Margaret rose and went to the window. Children played below, one girl’s blonde curls just like Emily’s. Her chest ached. She missed them more than she’d admit—Emily’s endless “whys,” Thomas sleeping in her arms.
The phone rang again. David’s name flashed.
“Mum, I know we messed up,” he began. “But the kids suffer. Emily asks about you daily. Thomas barely remembers your name.”
That stung. She shut her eyes.
“What do you want me to say, David?”
“I want you to forgive us. Let them see their nan.”
“And I want respect. Not to be used.”
“We respect you—”
“You threw me out!”
Christ, must we harp on this? What’s done is done.”
There it was. No remorse, just impatience.
“David,” she said softly, “I raised you twenty-eight years. Worked double shifts for your education. Then raised your kids another twenty. Do you recall that?”
“I do—”
“Then explain how you discard someone who gave everything?”
“We didn’t discard—”
“You did. And now you want me to swallow the hurt and be your on-call babysitter again.”
“What’s wrong withAnd as the phone finally fell silent, Margaret sat alone in her chair, her heart heavy but her resolve unbroken, knowing that sometimes love means holding on—but sometimes it means letting go.
