**Thursday Evening**
My daughter asked me to stay with them for a week to look after my grandson, but it turned out I wasn’t just there for him—I was there to clean the entire house.
I sat in my cosy flat in Manchester, staring at the suitcase I’d just packed. Emily, my daughter, had called the night before with a request I couldn’t refuse: “Mum, come stay with us for a week, help with little Oliver. James and I have so much to sort out at work.” I adore my five-year-old grandson, so of course I said yes. I imagined reading him stories, taking him to the park, making him laugh. But the moment I stepped through her front door, I knew—this wouldn’t be a week of joyful bonding. It would be pure drudgery, hidden under a thin veil of family duty. My heart sank, but there was no backing out now.
Emily and her husband, James, lived in a lovely townhouse just outside the city centre. I’d always admired how she juggled work, motherhood, and somehow kept the place spotless. But as I walked in, my stomach clenched—dirty plates stacked in the kitchen, toys strewn across the living room, and biscuit crumbs ground into the rug. Emily hugged me tightly and rushed out the words, “Mum, we’re leaving early tomorrow. You’ll be fine with Oliver, right? Oh, and if you get a chance, maybe tidy up a bit?” I nodded, but unease settled in my chest. That *”a bit”* was a trap I didn’t see coming.
The next day, after they left, it was just me and Oliver. I’d braced myself for tantrums, endless questions, even his refusal to eat his greens. But I wasn’t prepared for the house to become my personal nightmare. Oliver sprinted around like any excitable little boy, scattering Lego and dirty socks in his wake. I chased after him, trying to restore order, but it was like shoveling snow in a blizzard. By evening, I found a note stuck to the fridge: *”Mum, if you could—do the laundry, mop the floors, sort the wardrobe, pop to Tesco?”* I stood frozen, my temples throbbing. This wasn’t about minding Oliver. This was a full-blown housekeeping assignment.
Every day was a marathon. Breakfast for Oliver, then the park to burn off his energy. Back home, lunch, washing up, scrubbing stains, folding mountains of laundry. The wardrobe Emily wanted “sorted” was a jumbled mess of creased jumpers and mismatched socks. Groceries? I hauled heavy bags while Oliver whined for ice cream. By bedtime, I was exhausted, but still read him stories because he wouldn’t sleep otherwise. I love that boy, but with each passing day, my patience wore thinner. *”I came here for him, not to be their maid,”* I thought, catching a glimpse of new lines in the mirror.
By Wednesday, I cracked. I called Emily, forcing calm into my voice. “Love, you asked me to watch Oliver. Why am I doing *everything*?” She sounded surprised. “Mum, you’re here anyway—I thought it’d be easy for you. James and I are shattered.” My throat tightened. I wanted to scream that I wasn’t twenty anymore, that my back ached, that I deserved rest too. Instead, I just said, “I came for Oliver. Not your mess.” She muttered something about not realizing and promised to sort it, but I didn’t believe her.
When they finally returned, the house sparkled, Oliver was grinning, and I felt wrung out like a dishcloth. Emily hugged me. “Mum, you’re an angel—we’d be lost without you!” But those words didn’t feel like gratitude. They felt like proof I’d been used. I kissed Oliver goodbye, smiled tightly, and left, swearing to myself—no more vague “favours.”
Now, back in my quiet flat, I’m steeling myself for a difficult talk with Emily. I love Oliver. I’ll always be there for him. But not at the cost of my health, my dignity. I won’t be their invisible miracle-worker anymore. Next time, I’ll set boundaries. For Oliver’s sake. For mine.
