Margaret slammed her teacup onto the saucer so hard that the tea splashed onto the tablecloth. On the other end of the line, her neighbor Judy’s indignant voice still crackled through.
“Meg, how can you be like this? Turning your back on your own grandkids! They’re little—what have they ever done to you?”
“Judy, mind your own business,” Margaret replied coolly. “Everyone has their reasons.”
“What reasons could you possibly have against children? Lily’s only four, and little Henry’s just turned two. They miss their grandma!”
Margaret sighed and glanced out the window. Neighbourhood kids were playing in the yard, and for a moment, she could almost see hers there—Lily always begging to be pushed on the swings, Henry toddling unsteadily after pigeons.
“Judy, I don’t have time for this. Goodbye.”
She hung up and walked to the kitchen. Stuck to the fridge were still the children’s drawings—sloppy crayon scribbles Lily had proudly called “portraits of Granny.” Margaret peeled them off and shoved them into the drawer.
The doorbell made her jump. Peering through the peephole, she saw her son, James, holding grocery bags.
“Mum, let me in,” he said, exhaustion in his voice.
She opened the door but didn’t step aside.
“If you’re here to beg me to babysit again, you may as well leave now.”
James set the bags down and met her eyes.
“Mum, don’t be childish. Emily’s ill, her fever’s through the roof. I’ve got work, and there’s no one else to watch the kids.”
“Find a nanny. It’s not like you’re short on money.”
“How am I meant to find a nanny last-minute? Mum, they’re your grandchildren!”
“My grandchildren?” Margaret scoffed. “Was that what they were six months ago when you kicked me out of your flat?”
James rubbed his forehead. They’d had this argument too many times.
“Mum, we explained—we needed space. Two bedrooms isn’t enough for four people.”
“Oh, space. Right. And me renting some dinghy corner at my age—that’s fine, is it?”
“We help with the rent—”
“Spare change, you mean!” Her voice rose. “Twenty years I lived with your family. Raised *your* kids while you and Emily worked. Cooked, cleaned, did your laundry. Then they got bigger, and suddenly I was in the way. Out I went!”
“Mum, we didn’t have a choice—”
“You *had* choices! You could’ve moved to a bigger place. But no—you wanted your fancy car and holidays in Spain instead.”
James fell silent. He knew she was right, but admitting it stung.
“Listen,” he said quietly, “I know we messed up. But the kids—what have they done? They love you.”
“And I love them,” Margaret admitted. “Which is why I don’t want them seeing how their parents treat me. Better they remember me as the fun grandma than watch you take me for granted.”
“We don’t take you for granted!”
“Don’t you? Who calls every week begging for free childcare? Who dumps them on me when they’re too ill for nursery? Who leaves them here every other weekend so you can ‘recover’?”
James opened his mouth, but she cut in:
“And when my heart played up last month, who came? Judy from next door! Not my son, not my daughter-in-law—a stranger.”
“Mum, we’ve got jobs, kids—”
“Everyone has jobs and kids. Good people still care for their parents.”
She stayed blocking the doorway. James knew he wouldn’t win today.
“Fine,” he muttered, picking up the bags. “But this isn’t right, Mum. The kids ask why Grandma doesn’t love them anymore.”
The words stung, but Margaret didn’t flinch.
“Tell them Grandma’s tired of being convenient.”
As James left, she shut the door and leaned against it, throat tight. She swallowed the tears. In the living room, she sank into the armchair where she’d once read Lily bedtime stories.
She’d been renting this flat for six months—a cramped one-bed on the outskirts, far from their old neighbourhood. The landlady was kind, but it wasn’t home. Someone else’s walls, someone else’s smells.
It had started with that kitchen-table conversation. James and Emily, whispering but not quietly enough.
“Maybe it’s time your mum found her own place,” Emily had said. “The kids need their own rooms.”
James had hesitated. “But she helps with them.”
“Helps? More like undermines me. Spoils them, criticises everything I do. Last night she let Lily watch telly till eleven, even though I’d said no.”
“Should we talk to her?”
“What’s there to say? She acts like we owe her. It’s *our* flat, *our* kids. We’re adults—we decide how to raise them.”
Margaret hadn’t slept. By breakfast, Emily made it official.
“We think it’s time you got your own place,” she’d said, stirring her tea.
Margaret had choked on her coffee.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re independent. And we’re cramped.”
“Cramped?” Margaret echoed. “Twenty years wasn’t cramped?”
“We needed help back then,” James jumped in. “The kids are bigger now.”
“Ah. So while I was *useful*, I stayed. Now I’m expendable.”
“Mum, that’s not—”
Emily interrupted. “We’ll help with rent. At first, at least.”
*At first.* As if she’d asked for pocket money, not given them her life.
“Fine,” Margaret had said. “I’ll go. But remember—with me goes the free babysitter.”
James had frowned. “What’s *that* supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like. No more Grandma on demand. You want independence? Enjoy it.”
Emily and James exchanged a look. They hadn’t considered that side of things.
“Lily and Henry adore you,” James tried. “You’ll still see them, won’t you?”
“I’ll visit. Sundays. Two hours max. Like normal grandmas who live apart.”
“And if we need you urgently? If we get sick?”
“Hire help. Or use nursery.”
Emily turned pale.
“That’s expensive—”
“And my labour was free,” Margaret reminded her. “Twenty years of free help. Reckon that’s enough.”
They’d protested, backtracked, but she’d stood firm. The truth was clear—she’d been used. Tolerated out of necessity, discarded when convenient.
She’d found this flat fast. The landlady, another older woman, took pity on “the granny her family tossed out” and even lowered the rent.
Moving day wrecked her. James helped silently, guilt written all over him. Lily had sobbed, clinging to her skirt.
“Don’t go, Granny!”
“I’m not going far, sweetheart. Just to a new house.”
“Can I visit?”
“Always.”
But Lily never did. James called at first, suggesting visits. Then the calls spaced out. Then stopped.
Margaret knew why. Emily didn’t want a “difficult” mother-in-law around. And James, as always, obeyed his wife.
The real pain came a month later. A midweek call, James frantic.
“Mum, disaster. Emily’s flu’s bad, and I’ve got a huge meeting tomorrow. Can you take the kids?”
“No.”
“What d’you mean, *no*? They’re your grandchildren!”
“*Your* children. You wanted independence—here it is.”
“But you love them!”
“I do. But I won’t be your on-call fix for problems *you* created.”
James had yelled then, called her cruel. Margaret listened, remembering all the times he’d yelled when she’d tried to discipline the kids in front of Emily.
The calls kept coming. Emily’s migraines, nursery closures, weekends they “needed a break.” Every time, Margaret refused.
“Mum, stop being petty!” James would snap. “We’re not enemies!”
“Not enemies. But not family either. Family doesn’t turf out their elders.”
“We didn’t *turf you out*! We got you a flat!”
“Did you? Or am I paying most of the rent with my pension and your scraps?”
Silence. Their “help” had been token—£200 a month, when rent was £800.
And today, he’d come again. Same request.
Margaret wandered to the window. Kids played outside, one girl’s blonde curls just like Lily’s. Her heart ached. She missed them more than she’d admit—Lily’s endless “whys,” her fridge drawings, Henry’s sleepy cuddles.
Her phone buzzed. *James.*
“Mum, IShe watched the call ring out, knowing some wounds never fully heal, and that sometimes love meant walking away—for good.
