Emily stood by the window of her flat in Manchester, watching as Paul strapped their four-year-old son, Oliver, into the car seat. The little boy chattered excitedly about the trip to his grandparents’ house. Every weekend, they drove him to Emily’s parents so they could spend time with their grandson. Yet each time they returned home, Emily felt a simmering frustration. Her mother, Margaret, truly believed she was doing them a massive favour by looking after Oliver. That thought made Emily’s blood boil, and she struggled to keep her temper in check.
It all started two years ago, when Oliver was old enough to stay with his grandparents on weekends. Emily and Paul thought it would be lovely for them to bond. Margaret and her husband, Richard, adored Oliver. They spoiled him with scones, took him to the park, and read him bedtime stories. Emily loved seeing her son’s face light up around them. She remembered how much she’d enjoyed visiting her own gran as a child and wanted Oliver to have those same warm memories. But she never imagined her good intentions would backfire like this.
Every time they picked Oliver up, Margaret greeted them with the air of a martyr who’d sacrificed her weekend for their sake. “There you go, I’ve done my bit—now you can relax,” she’d say, dabbing her brow as if exhausted. Or, “He’s a handful, but I don’t mind helping out so you two can sort your lives.” Emily clenched her fists, her pulse throbbing in her temples. She wanted to shout, “We’re not dumping him on you! We brought him so YOU could enjoy him!” But instead, she forced a smile and muttered, “Thanks, Mum.” Even Paul, usually unflappable, was losing patience. On the drive home, he’d whisper, “Does she really think we’re palming him off just to go clubbing? This is for them, not us!”
It wasn’t that Emily and Paul didn’t cherish their time with Oliver. On the contrary, they loved building Lego castles with him or walking along the River Irwell. But they saw how Margaret lit up when Oliver sprinted into her arms yelling, “Nana!” They wanted to give her that joy, to let Oliver feel the love of his extended family. Yet each time, Margaret’s remarks grated harder. “I’m knackered, but it’s fine—I did it for you,” she’d sigh, as if they’d foisted a chore on her. Emily felt guilty without knowing why.
The breaking point came last weekend. They dropped Oliver off as usual on Saturday morning. Margaret sighed, “Oh, another day chasing after him. But I suppose you two need your freedom.” Emily snapped. Her voice shook as she said, “Mum, we’re not bringing him because we can’t be bothered! We want you and Dad to have time with him—so he knows you, loves you! This isn’t a favour—it’s for you!” The room fell silent. Margaret blinked, stunned, while Richard coughed and buried himself in the newspaper. Paul squeezed Emily’s hand as if to say, “Well done. Finally.”
That evening, when they collected Oliver, Margaret was quieter than usual. No complaints, no martyred sighs—just a soft hug for Oliver and a murmured, “Come again soon.” Emily felt relief, tinged with guilt. Had she been too harsh? But Paul, sliding into the driver’s seat, smiled. “Let her get used to the idea we’re not offloading him. We’re sharing the joy.” Oliver hummed a nursery rhyme in the backseat, and Emily thought, for his sake, she’d keep setting the record straight.
Now, they still take Oliver to his grandparents, but warily. Emily hopes her mother finally understands—they’re not after a babysitter but want their son surrounded by love. Yet whenever Margaret hints at “doing them a favour,” Emily feels that familiar heat rise. Their family isn’t a transaction. It’s love. And if Margaret forgets that, Emily won’t hesitate to remind her. For Oliver. For the truth.
