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“Raising a Timid Child? When Your Mother-in-Law Demands Football but Your Son Loves the Piano”

Raising a Wet Blanket Why on earth did you enrol him in music lessons? Barbara Watson breezed past her

My Husband’s Ex-Wife Demanded I Babysit Their Grandchildren—So I Gave Her the Response She Deserved — “Oh, come on, it’s not that difficult, is it? It’s only three days. Katie’s in a desperate situation—a last-minute trip to Spain, she hasn’t had a real break in ages, and, well… you know, my blood pressure’s bad, and my back is totally knackered from gardening at the allotment. And David—he’s their proper grandad. It’s his duty to help.” The voice on the phone was so loud David didn’t even need to put it on speaker. Helen, who was stirring a vegetable stew at the stove, could hear every word. That voice—high-pitched with a hint of demanding petulance—she’d have recognised anywhere. Lorraine. The first and, unfortunately, unforgettable wife of her husband. David shot Helen an apologetic look, cradling the phone between his shoulder and his ear while slicing bread—crooked slices, as always, whenever he was nervous. — “Lorraine, hang on—” he tried to get a word in. “What’s this got to do with Katie’s holiday? Helen and I had plans for the weekend…” — “Oh, what plans could you possibly have?” Lorraine butted in, not bothering with formalities. “A spot of weeding? A museum? David, these are your grandchildren—Oliver and Daniel. They need a good male role model, not a load of mollycoddling. You haven’t seen them in a month. Don’t you have a conscience? Or has your precious new missus completely henpecked you?” Helen put down her spoon and turned off the gas. “New missus.” She and David had been married eight years. Eight happy, peaceful years—if you ignored the regular visits from “Hurricane Lorraine.” First there were demands to up maintenance for their fully-grown daughter, then constant requests for handouts, repairs, dental treatment, even a new car. David, always gentle and decent, paid up for years, still haunted by guilt over leaving the marriage—even though Katie had already turned twenty and the two of them had been living as flatmates for years. “Lorraine, don’t talk about Helen like that.” David’s voice was firmer now, but embarrassment lingered. “This isn’t about her. We just need a bit of notice. The boys are only six—they need watching every second, and we’re not getting any younger…” — “Exactly!” Lorraine sounded triumphant. “Old age is a booby prize, and moving around keeps you youthful. Chase after the grandkids, it’ll do you good! Anyway, Katie’ll drop them off tomorrow for ten. I can’t, you know my back—and don’t argue, David. They’re your family.” There was a click and the dial tone echoed in the room. David set the phone down and exhaled heavily, not meeting Helen’s gaze. The kitchen fell quiet; only the ticking clock filled the air. Outside, an evening shower rattled against the windowsill. Helen tidied imaginary crumbs with a napkin. — “So, tomorrow at ten, then?” she asked, her voice steady. David finally looked up. His eyes begged forgiveness. — “Helen, I’m so sorry. You heard her—like a sledgehammer. Katie’s flying out, Lorraine claims she’s crippled… What else can they do? They’re my grandkids.” — “David,” Helen sat opposite him and laced her fingers, “these are your grandkids. Not mine. I’m fond of them, but let’s be honest—they don’t even call me by name. To them, I’m ‘that lady,’ just as Granny Lorraine taught them. Every visit ends with chaos, because Katie believes in zero rules for kids.” — “I’ll handle them myself!” David assured her. “Really. You won’t have to lift a finger. I’ll take them to the park, the cinema, the amusements—just, if you could cook something simple, soup or meatballs. They do love your cooking, even if they’d never admit it.” Helen smiled sadly. She knew how it would go. David would last two hours before collapsing on the sofa. Then it would be her, left in charge of two six-year-olds bouncing off the furniture and ignoring every word (“Granny Lorraine says anything goes because Grandpa’s in charge”). — “We’ve got theatre tickets Saturday,” Helen reminded him. “And we planned to go to the allotment—to get the roses ready for winter.” — “The theatre isn’t going anywhere. The tickets can be returned… and the roses… Oh, Helen, please. Just this once. I’ll have a word with Katie, make sure it never happens again.” “Just this once.” She’d heard that phrase twenty times. Each time, she’d caved in—not wanting to add to his guilt. But this time, something snapped. Maybe it was Lorraine’s bossy tone, maybe it was being taken for granted. — “No, David,” Helen said quietly. David blinked in confusion. — “No what?” — “No, we’re not taking the kids. Not this time. I’m not cancelling my plans, not returning my tickets, not spending three days cooking for children who last time told me my soup ‘smelled funny’ and that ‘mum’s better.’” — “Helen, come on—they’re just kids. Where’s Katie going to put them? Her holiday’s already paid for.” — “That’s Katie’s problem. She’s an adult. She’s got a husband, a mother-in-law, nannies if she wants. Why should their emergencies always become my responsibility?” — “Ours—” David corrected. — “No, David. Mine. Because I clean the house when they leave mayhem, I do the laundry, I do the cooking—while you play the doting grandad, then retreat with your blood pressure pills. I respect your relationship with your grandchildren, but I didn’t sign up as a free nanny for the children of a woman who despises me.” David frowned, not used to Helen being so direct. She was usually the soul of patience. — “So what do you suggest? Call and say ‘no’ right now? Lorraine will explode, kick up a fuss, probably give me a heart attack.” — “Don’t call,” Helen said, getting up and heading to the window. “Let them bring the kids.” — “So you’re… you’re saying yes?” David brightened. — “No. Let them bring the kids. We’ll see.” Saturday morning dawned sunny and warm—unlike the mood in Helen and David’s flat. David was pacing, fussing with the sofa, checking his watch. Helen, calm as ever, enjoyed her breakfast, picked a dress, did her makeup, and packed a small bag. — “Going somewhere?” David fretted as she packed a book and umbrella. — “Don’t forget, we’re at the theatre by seven. I thought I’d have my hair done and walk by the river before then—clear my head.” — “Helen! They’ll be here in fifteen minutes! How am I supposed to cope on my own? I don’t know what they eat, where their things are—” — “You’ll work it out. You’re their grandad. A positive male role model—wasn’t that what Lorraine wanted?” Just then, the doorbell rang—loud and insistent. David dashed to open it; Helen lingered in the bedroom, slipping on her shoes. Raised voices echoed from the hallway. — “Thank God, no traffic!” It was Katie, David’s daughter. “Dad! Here you go—bag’s here, tablet’s charged, any problems just ring. Gotta dash—the cab’s waiting! Oliver, Daniel, behave for your granddad!” — “But—what about food… their routines—” David started. — “Oh, it’s the weekend—just stick some fish fingers on! Bye!” The door banged, in ran two boys, yelling, “Attack!” Helen walked into the hallway. The twins were already climbing the shoe rack, grabbing for David’s hat. David looked lost, clutching a giant holdall. But most interesting of all, there was Lorraine in the doorway. Apparently her poorly back hadn’t stopped her coming to “supervise.” She looked in rude health, hair coiffed, gold everywhere. — “Ah, there you are,” Lorraine eyed Helen up and down. “I hope you’re ready. Nothing fried for the boys—Daniel’s allergic to oranges, Oliver hates onions, soup must be fresh daily. And don’t let them have screens for more than an hour.” Her tone was pure dowager—issuing orders to the help. David shrank, prepared for a row. Helen coolly went to the mirror and adjusted her hair. — “Good morning, Lorraine. Good morning, boys.” The twins stopped briefly, but carried on jumping. — “Thank you for the helpful instructions,” Helen replied with a gentle smile. “Do pass them on to David—he’s in charge today.” — “Excuse me?” Lorraine’s eyebrows shot up. “Where do you think you’re going?” — “It’s my day off. I’ve got errands, friends to meet, theatre. I’ll be back late, maybe tomorrow.” Lorraine reddened and blocked her path. — “Are you mad? Personal errands? Two children here—your husband’s grandchildren! You’re obliged—” — “I’m only obliged to those I promised,” Helen stopped her, softly but firmly. “I’m not their mother or their grandmother. Their own parents and grannies can look after them. You, Lorraine, are retired, as far as I know.” — “My back!” Lorraine screeched. — “And I have a life. I don’t intend to spend it servicing other people, especially when asked in that tone.” — “David!” Lorraine turned. “Are you hearing this? Are you a man or a mouse? Tell her!” David’s eyes flicked between the women, torn by habit. — “Lorraine…” he began, “Helen, er, did say she was busy. I thought I could manage on my own…” — “Manage? You’ll be on the sofa in an hour! Who’ll feed them, bathe them? Look at her—done up for the theatre, and her ‘family’s in crisis!’” — “Family?” Helen’s smile vanished. “Let’s be clear, Lorraine. David and I are a family. You, Katie, and your grandchildren are David’s relatives, not mine. I’ve put up with your demands and insults long enough. But this is my home, not a creche, I’m not your unpaid servant.” — “How dare you! This is my ex-husband’s flat—he’s entitled—” — “He can invite whomever he likes. But he can’t force me to serve his guests. David—your choice. You can stay here with the grandkids and Lorraine, who clearly feels fine now she’s here. I’m off.” Helen turned for the door. — “Wait!” Lorraine grabbed her arm. “You’re not going anywhere until you cook for the kids! Katie’s at the airport! Where am I supposed to put them!” Helen calmly but firmly removed Lorraine’s hand. — “That’s not my concern, Lorraine. Call a taxi, go home, make your own soup. Or call Katie—she can come back. And don’t touch me again. Otherwise, I’ll call the police and report you for trespassing and assault. And believe me—I will.” A deathly silence fell; even the twins froze. David, amazed and a bit scared, watched Helen—she had never been like this before: not “nice Helen,” but a woman defending her boundaries. Lorraine gasped for breath. She was used to Helen taking it. Not anymore. — “You’re a monster,” Lorraine spat. “Selfish cow. I’ll make sure everyone knows what you’ve done.” — “Go ahead,” Helen shrugged. “I don’t care.” She walked out. — “David, you have keys. If you sort this, ring me. If not—I’ll see you when the boys are gone.” The lift doors closed behind her. Outside, she inhaled the fresh, rain-washed air. Her hands shook, but she felt incredibly free. She’d finally said “no.” Helen had a wonderful day—art exhibit, coffee, a stroll in the park. She turned her phone off all day, ignoring missed calls and messages. That evening, after the play, she switched it on: ten missed calls from David. One text—*“Lorraine’s taken the boys. I’m home. Sorry.”* She got home at eleven. The flat was quiet and spotless. David sat at the kitchen table, looking exhausted. — “Where are the boys?” she asked. — “Lorraine marched them off. She shrieked about cursing us, rang Katie, demanded money. In the end, Katie had to arrange a nanny in Spain and take the boys with her. Lorraine flat-out refused—her ‘back’ acted up at the mere thought of helping.” — “See? There was a solution. Katie’s their mother—let her enjoy her holiday with her kids. That’s normal.” — “Helen,” David reached for her hand, “thank you.” — “For what—leaving you to deal with it?” — “For making me feel like a man, not Lorraine’s doormat. I realised today: I don’t owe Lorraine or Katie—or anyone—but you. You’re my family. I’ve acted like a coward.” — “You’ve learned. That’s all that matters. Tea and cherry pie?” The next day, Lorraine didn’t call. Katie texted from Spain. Life felt different now—lighter, airier, no trace of old resentment. A week later: — “Lorraine called yesterday,” David said while gardening. Helen tensed. “What did she want?” — “Money for medication.” — “And did you give any?” — “No. Told her our budget’s tight—new conservatory for you, remember? She hung up. And you know what? The world didn’t end.” — “Nope,” Helen grinned. “It just got a little brighter.” The failed “babysitting drop-off” became a turning point in their marriage. Helen realised dignity meant quietly saying “no” when someone trampled her boundaries. And David learned that his wife’s respect was worth more than peace with an ex-wife who was no longer family. The grandkids still came, but only by arrangement. Lorraine never set foot in their flat again. David took the boys to the park, the zoo, then dropped them home—much easier for everyone. The children got a happy granddad, not a harried one. And Helen got what she deserved—peace, and a husband who finally, truly chose her. Sometimes, sitting on their patio at sunset, Helen thought of that day she picked up her bag and left for the theatre. It was the best performance she’d ever seen—even if she couldn’t remember the play’s name. Because the real drama had happened in her own hallway, and the ending was happily ever after. If you enjoyed this story about standing up for yourself, don’t forget to follow and leave a comment—what would you have done in Helen’s place?

Surely, it cant be such a bother for you? Its only three days. Sophies in a tight spot, a bargain trip

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“Raising a Timid Child? When Your Mother-in-Law Demands Football but Your Son Loves the Piano”

Raising a Wet Blanket Why on earth did you enrol him in music lessons? Barbara Watson breezed past her

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Even Now, Some Nights I Wake Up Wondering How My Dad Managed to Take Everything From Us. I Was 15 When It Happened—We Lived in a Small, Well-Kept House with the Fridge Stocked on Shopping Days and the Bills Usually Paid on Time. I Was in Year 10 and My Biggest Worry Was Passing Maths and Saving Up for Trainers I Really Wanted. Everything Changed When My Dad Started Coming Home Later, Ignoring Us and Spending All His Time on His Phone. One Friday, He Packed His Suitcase and Left for Another Woman. He Emptied Our Savings and Left Debt Behind. That Week, My Mum’s Card Was Blocked, Internet Was Cut Off, and We Struggled Even for Essentials. Mum Cleaned Houses for Work, I Sold Sweets at School, Embarrassed but Determined to Help. Sometimes, All We Had Was Rice for Dinner. Much Later, I Saw Dad’s Photo Online Raising a Toast with His New Partner. My Last Message: “Dad, I Need Money for School Supplies.” His Reply: “I Can’t Support Two Families.” That Was the Last Time He Spoke to Me. Now, I Work, Pay My Own Way, and Help Mum, But the Hurt Remains—not Just About Money but About Being Abandoned and Left to Survive Alone as a Child. And Still, Many Nights I Wake Up Asking: How Do You Go On When Your Own Father Takes Everything and Leaves You to Learn How to Survive?

Even now, I sometimes wake in the middle of the night and wonder when my father managed to take everything from us.

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After My Parents’ Divorce, I Was Cast Aside: How I Was Forced Out by My Mum, Rejected by My Dad, and Ultimately Forgave Them—A True Story of Family, Reconciliation, and Finding Happiness

I begged, but my mother was resolute. She hurriedly stuffed my clothes into my rucksack, handed me a

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“Raising a Timid Child? When Your Mother-in-Law Demands Football but Your Son Loves the Piano”

Raising a Wet Blanket Why on earth did you enrol him in music lessons? Barbara Watson breezed past her

La vida

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“She’s Just Playing My Husband – Fuming, Emma Complained” Emma stared at her phone, feeling that familiar surge of frustration boiling inside.

Shes just manipulating my husband, Charlotte fumed. Staring at her phone, I felt that familiar, simmering

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Even now, I sometimes wake in the middle of the night and wonder when my father managed to take everything from us.

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After Seventy, She Was Forgotten by All—Even Her Own Son and Daughter Didn’t Wish Her a Happy Birthday

Margaret sat alone on a wooden bench in the garden of the care home, thin raindrops tracing silent paths

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Let My Good Deed Come Back to Haunt Me — Dad, what’s with the new decorations? Did you clean out the local antique shop? — Christina raised her eyebrows in confusion, eyeing the white crochet doily on her dresser. — I had no idea you fancied ancient knick-knacks. Your taste is straight out of Grandma’s era… — Oh, Christina dear! Didn’t expect you to pop in unannounced, — said Mr. Peterson, emerging from the kitchen. — I mean, we—I wasn’t expecting you… Her father tried to look cheerful, but guilt flickered in his eyes. — Well, it’s obvious you weren’t, — Christina said sourly, heading to the living room, bracing for more surprises. — Dad… Where did all this come from? What’s going on here? Christina barely recognised her own flat… When she inherited the place from her grandmother, it was a depressing sight: battered furniture, a chunky old television balancing on a peeling cabinet, rusty radiators, and wallpaper hanging on for dear life. But, it was hers. She’d saved up just enough for renovations. Christina picked Scandinavian style—light colours, minimalism—making her two-bed feel more spacious. She added her own touches, carefully chose curtains, laid down fluffy rugs with love… Now, her thick blackout curtains had been swapped for ordinary nylon netting. Her Italian sofa was buried under a synthetic leopard blanket with a grinning tiger. A pink plastic vase and equally toxic fake roses sat on her coffee table. But the worst part was the smell. From the kitchen came the stench of frying oil and fish. Cigarette smoke wafted through the air. And her dad didn’t even smoke… — Christina, you see… — Oleg finally replied. — It’s a bit complicated. I’m not alone. I meant to tell you but it never seemed the right moment. — Not alone? — Christina was lost for words. — Dad, this isn’t what we agreed! — Come on, you know my life didn’t end with your mother. I’m still young—haven’t even got my pension yet. Don’t I deserve a personal life? Christina froze. Of course, her dad deserved to date. But in HER flat? Her parents had split a year ago. Mum took it in stride, almost relieved, throwing herself into self-development and friendship. Christina’s dad, meanwhile, fell to pieces. He returned to his pre-marital flat—a disaster after being rented out for ten years. The last tenant fell asleep with a cigarette. No money for repairs, so he abandoned it. He didn’t sell it, just let it rot. It was unliveable: walls black with soot, smashed windows, mould on the sills… A horror movie set. — Christina, I’ve no idea how I’ll survive, — he sighed back then. — It’s dangerous to stay here, and I’ll never get it sorted by winter. No money, either. If I freeze, so be it… I suppose that’s my fate. Christina couldn’t accept it. She couldn’t let the man who raised her live like that. Especially when her own flat was empty—she’d recently married and moved in with her husband. Given her dad’s history with tenants, she wasn’t planning to rent it out. — Dad, stay at mine for now, — she offered. — Everything’s set up, all the comforts. Do up your place gradually, then move back. Just one condition: no guests. — Really? — he asked, amazed. — Thank you, sweetheart! You’ve saved me. Promise I’ll keep things quiet and peaceful. Peaceful? Hardly. As Christina recalled their conversation, the bathroom door burst open, steam spilling out. A woman of fifty glided out, wrapped in Christina’s favourite fluffy dressing gown, barely covering her voluptuous figure. — Oh, Oleg, do we have company? — the woman boomed in a smoky voice, flashing a condescending smile. — You might’ve warned me. I’m in my loungewear. — And you are? — Christina narrowed her eyes. — And why are you wearing my dressing gown? — I’m Jean, your dad’s beloved. And what’s got your knickers in a twist? The gown was just hanging there unused. Christina saw red. — Take it off. Now, — she snapped. — Christina! — her dad pleaded, stepping between them. — No need for drama. Jean just— — Jean’s wearing someone else’s clothes in someone else’s home! — Christina cut him off. — Dad, what’s wrong with you? You brought your girlfriend here and let her rummage through my things without permission?! Jean rolled her eyes dramatically, stomping off and plopping herself onto the tiger blanket. — What a rude little madam you are, — she announced. — If I were in Oleg’s shoes, I’d take a belt to you, no matter your age. Is THAT how you speak to your father? Who he lives with isn’t your concern, missy. Christina was gobsmacked. Some strange woman, lounging on her sofa, scolding her like a wayward child. — Not my concern, — Christina agreed, — until it happens in my home. — Your home? — Jean arched an eyebrow at Oleg. He cowered by the wall, shifting his terrified gaze from furious daughter to brazen girlfriend, clearly hoping this storm might blow over. But the forecast was grim. — Well, did Daddy not mention that bit? — Christina said icily. — Fine, I’ll spell it out. He’s a guest here. This flat is mine—every single thing in it bought by me. I let him stay, but I never signed up for him bringing his girlfriends around. Jean flushed scarlet. — Oleg?… — her voice now ice. — What is she talking about? You said this was your place. You lied to me? Her dad shrank against the wallpaper, ears burning with shame. — Well… Jean, you misunderstood. I do have my own place, just not this one. I didn’t want to bore you with details. — Didn’t want to bore me? Thanks a lot! Now I’ve got her giving me grief! Christina’s patience snapped. — Out, — she said quietly. — What? — Jean stalled. — Out. Both of you. I’m giving you an hour. If you’re still here after that, we’ll settle things properly. This is what happens when you let someone into your ‘Little Palace’… She headed for the door, but Oleg broke away from the wall and rushed after her. — You wouldn’t chuck your own father out, would you? You KNOW what my flat’s like! I’ll freeze! He grabbed her sleeve, her heart twinged with guilt—memories, duty, pity. Tears threatened. But Christina looked at Jean. Sitting there, legs crossed, wearing Christina’s dressing gown, glaring at her with pure venom. If she gave in now, tomorrow this woman would change the locks and redecorate. — Dad, you’re an adult. Find a rental, — Christina said, pulling free. — You’re to blame. We agreed you’d live alone. But you brought a random woman, let her wear my things, and trashed my home… — Oh, choke on your precious flat! — Jean snapped. — Come on, Oleg, don’t demean yourself. Raised a thankless brat… Half an hour later, it was done. Her father left without a word, hunched like an old man. Christina would never forget that look—a beaten dog in the rain. She stood her ground till the end. As soon as they left, she flung open the windows to banish the smell of fish, cigarettes, and cheap perfume. The dressing gown, blanket, everything Jean had touched—straight to the bin. Next day: cleaners and a locksmith. She couldn’t bear a trace of that woman. …Four days passed. Christina’s flat was hers again: no fake flowers, no foul odours. She lived with her husband now, but just knowing the place was peaceful made her happy. She didn’t speak to her dad—until, on the fourth day, he called. — Hello? — Christina answered after a pause. — Well, Christina… — her father slurred, drunk. — Are you happy now? Jean’s gone. She left me. — Wow, how surprising, — Christina replied. — Let me guess. She saw your real flat, realised it was a dump, and fled? He sniffled. — Yeah… I put a heater in and slept on an air mattress. She lasted three days… She put up with it, then called me a pauper and a liar and moved in with her sister. Said she’d only wasted her time. But we loved each other, Christina! — Love? Please. You were both looking for an easy ride, that’s all. You both miscalculated. Silence. But he wasn’t done. — It’s miserable here alone, sweetheart, — he said. — It’s scary… Can I come back? I promise, just me this time! I swear! Christina’s eyes fell. Her dad sat somewhere in that mess and cold, but he’d made it through his own choices: cheating on her mother, lying to Christina, spinning tall stories for Jean. She pitied him. But pity could poison them both. — No, Dad. I won’t let you back, — said Christina. — Hire workers, get the place sorted. Learn to live in the mess you made for yourself. The best I’ll do is recommend a good team. That’s all. If you need advice, ask. She hung up. Harsh? Maybe. But Christina was done letting anyone leave a stain on her dressing gown—or on her soul. Some dirt you can’t wash out. You just keep it out of your life…

Brought Trouble on Myself Dad, whats with all the knickknacks? Did you rob an antiques shop?