When my daughter asked me to stay with them for a week and look after my grandson, I had no idea I’d end up bringing my mop and apron for months.
When she called and asked me to come over for a week, I didn’t hesitate for a second. She was preparing for important exams and needed help with her two-year-old. All my friends thought I was mad—”Eleanor, must you always be the one to say yes?” they said. “Agree once, and you’ll never get out of it.” But how could I refuse? She’s my daughter. He’s my grandson.
I arrived at their small two-bed flat in a quiet part of Manchester with just one suitcase and the genuine desire to be useful. But I quickly realised—I wasn’t just needed as a grandmother, but as a cleaner, cook, laundress, and, as the cherry on top, a full-time unpaid nanny.
My son-in-law worked around the clock, and my daughter was glued to her laptop all day, studying. The entire household fell on my shoulders: cooking, cleaning, the washing machine, and the dishwasher—which, by the way, never worked. So I washed everything by hand.
Fine, I thought. I’ll manage. It’s just one week. One single week.
But that week stretched into two, then three. Before I knew it, a whole month had passed. My daughter finished her exams but then immediately started sending out CVs, job hunting. I didn’t leave—how could I? My grandson was still little; they needed me.
No one outright asked me to stay. But no one told me to go, either. It just happened—I saw they needed help, so I stayed. Except, with each passing day, I caught more disapproving glances. First, because the soup wasn’t quite right. Then because I hung my son-in-law’s clothes in the wrong place. Eventually, I became nothing more than a nuisance.
In their home, I’m like a ghost—there, helping, doing everything, yet feeling like an outsider. No one says, “Mum, thank you.” No one has the decency to say, “Mum, maybe you should go home now.” Instead, it’s just tight-lipped smiles and sighs. I’d hoped they’d notice how much I do for them—that they’d at least say thank you, or hug me, or even just offer me a proper cup of tea instead of a teabag in a mug.
I never imagined my love and help would turn into this invisible imprisonment.
Back in my own little flat in Brighton, it’s clean, cosy, and quiet. Everything there is mine—my knitting, my old books, the violets on the windowsill. But here I am. Every morning, I’m up at six to make breakfast, then feed the baby, get him dressed, take him out. By midday, it’s lunch, laundry, mopping floors. Evenings are for dinner. And at night, I lie on the sofa in the nursery, staring at the ceiling, wondering—is this how it’s always going to be?
But I’m a mother. I’m a grandmother. And I won’t walk away. I wait. I wait for the day my daughter might say, “Mum, we’re so grateful for everything.” Or even just, “Mum, you must be exhausted—rest a while.” Maybe, one day, my son-in-law will smile and admit, “We couldn’t have done it without you.”
For now—silence.
Maybe they just don’t realise yet. Maybe it takes the young longer to understand the weight of a mother’s sacrifice. Yes, sometimes it feels like they see me as a given—a resource, not a person.
But I hold on. I keep believing that my love, my patience, my care—none of it is wasted. That it won’t be forgotten. I don’t want my kindness to become a burden they lug around out of guilt. I want it to be a foundation, an example. So that one day, when my daughter is older, she’ll understand what it truly means—not just to take, but to treasure.
If they’re not ready yet, I’ll wait. I’m a mother. And like all mothers, my heart holds an endless supply of faith—even when it aches.
