**Diary Entry – 12th May 2024**
When my daughter, Emily, rang me up and asked if I could come stay with them for a week, I didn’t hesitate. She was prepping for some big exams and needed someone to look after little Oliver, who’d just turned two. All my friends thought I was mad—”Victoria, why does it always have to be you? Say yes once, and you’ll never get free.” Still, I couldn’t refuse. She’s my daughter. And Oliver’s my grandson.
I arrived at their modest two-bed in a quiet corner of Manchester with a single suitcase and every intention of helping out. It didn’t take long, though, to realise I wasn’t just there as Granny. No, I was the cleaner, the cook, the launderer—and the cherry on top—the unpaid, full-time nanny.
My son-in-law, James, was working all hours, and Emily was glued to her laptop, revising. So the house fell squarely on my shoulders—meals, laundry, hoovering, washing up by hand since the dishwasher had packed in.
Fine, I thought. I’ll manage. Just a week. One. Single. Week.
But the week stretched into two, then three, and before I knew it, a whole month had slipped by. Emily finished her exams, only to start firing off CVs for jobs. I stayed—because what else could I do? Oliver was too young to manage without me.
No one asked me to remain. But no one suggested I leave, either. It just sort of… happened. I saw I was needed, so I stayed. Yet, as days passed, I caught more and more sideways looks—first because the roast was too dry, then because I’d hung James’ shirts wrong. Soon enough, it was clear I was “in the way.”
In their home, I was like a ghost—there, working, but feeling like an outsider. No one ever said, “Mum, thank you.” No one ever once admitted, “Mum, maybe you should go home.” No. Just tight-lipped smiles and heavy sighs. And, silly as it sounds, I kept waiting—for them to notice how much I did, to say something kind, to offer me a proper cuppa instead of that awful instant stuff.
I never imagined love could feel like a prison.
Back in my own little flat in Bristol, everything’s waiting—my knitting, my books, the violets on the windowsill. But here I am, up at six, scrambling eggs, dressing Oliver, pushing his pram round the park. By midday, it’s lunch, laundry, mopping. Come evening, it’s dinner. And at night, I lie on the pull-out in the nursery, wondering—will it always be like this?
But I’m a mother. A grandmother. And I won’t walk away. I keep hoping—that one day, Emily will say, “Mum, we’re so grateful.” Or even just, “Mum, you must be tired—take a break.” Maybe James’ll grin and admit, “Dunno how we’d manage without you.”
For now, all I get is silence.
Maybe it’ll take them time. Maybe the young don’t understand a mother’s sacrifice until much later. Yes, sometimes I feel like an appliance—something useful, not someone loved.
But I still believe—that this love, this patience, means something. That it won’t be forgotten. I don’t want my kindness to be a debt they resent. I want it to be the hand that steadied them. So when Emily’s my age, she’ll know—it’s not enough to take. You’ve got to give back, too.
If they’re not ready yet, I’ll wait. I’m a mother. And like all mothers, my heart’s got an endless well of faith—even when it aches.
