My name’s Emily, I’m twenty-nine. I’ve been married to William for over six years now, and we’ve got a lovely four-year-old daughter, Lily. We live the usual life of a young family—both working, paying off the mortgage, budgeting, trying to keep up with everything. Since working remotely, I’ve had more time with Lily, and my mum’s been a huge help with that.
Mum absolutely adores her granddaughter. She’s always taking her to her cottage, spending time with her, playing, teaching her things. It’s been a lifeline for us. Lily loves being there—it’s like a little holiday. She’s got a swing set, a garden, a sandpit, everything. But like any help, there’s another side to it.
Mum’s always been active. Retired, but never sits still. Always has some project on the go. This year, she decided—without a word to us—to build a gazebo in the garden. Ordered all the supplies herself, then dropped it on me like a bomb.
“Emily, tell William to come help unload everything. I can’t manage it alone.”
I nodded, but I knew exactly what William would say. It’s been the same for the past two years.
“That’s your mum’s cottage, Emily. Let her sort it out. I’m not going. I’ve got one life and one day off a week, and I’m spending it on the sofa, not doing favours for anyone. End of.”
I get it. He works hard. Sometimes even weekends are spent on his laptop, finishing urgent projects. Money’s tight—mortgage, a growing kid. But on the other hand—it’s my mum. She’s helped us so much. She takes Lily every week, doesn’t meddle, doesn’t ask for anything. And suddenly, a simple favour—unloading some timber—and he won’t budge.
In the end, the delivery arrived Friday morning. Mum rang in a panic—no one to help. I dropped everything, strapped Lily into the car and drove over. The two of us spent hours shifting timber, cement, beams—a nightmare. Mum could barely straighten up afterwards. But what really stung was that her son-in-law couldn’t even be bothered.
“Emily, what kind of man is he? Seriously! It’s not like I asked him to rebuild the roof—just two hours of help!” she fumed, dusting off her hands.
I just stood there, silent. Ashamed in front of Mum. Ashamed in front of myself. Ashamed in front of Lily, watching it all unfold, not understanding why Gran was angry and Mummy was sad.
When I got home, the air was thick with an icy silence. I tried to explain—Mum wasn’t being unreasonable, it was just a favour after everything she’s done. But William just waved me off.
“Do you ever listen? I’m carrying everything! I don’t owe her a thing! Her cottage, her project, her problem!”
I don’t know what to do. I’m stuck between them—Mum, always there, always helping, and William, exhausted, bitter, refusing to bend. And it’s tearing me apart because, in their own ways, they’re both right.
I love William. And I’m grateful to Mum. But I don’t understand why my family has become a battleground. Why I’m constantly justifying, pacifying, pleading. Why a simple favour always spirals into a row that poisons the whole week.
I’m tired. Tired of being the go-between. Tired of mediating, explaining, begging. I want Mum to feel valued, and William to understand that helping isn’t always an obligation—just basic respect for someone who’s always there for us.
Sometimes I wonder—should I be tougher? Or softer? Or just keep my mouth shut and get on with it? I don’t know.
But I do know this—I never want Lily to end up in this position. I want her to grow up with love, understanding, respect. No wars between her husband and her gran.
How to make that happen, though—that’s the real question.
