My daughter-in-law asked me not to come round so often. So I stopped… until one day, she rang me herself and asked for help.
After my son got married, I made a point of popping by their house as much as possible. I never turned up empty-handed—always bringing something homemade, like a fresh batch of scones or a steaming cottage pie. My daughter-in-law, Emily, would gush over my cooking, always the first to try a bite. I thought we had a lovely, easy friendship. I was just happy to be helpful, to be part of their lives. More than anything, I wanted to feel like family—not some distant in-law, but someone they could rely on.
Then, one day, everything changed. I dropped by unannounced, and only Emily was home. We had our usual cup of tea, but something was off. There was this uneasy look in her eyes, like she had something to say but didn’t know how. And when she finally said it—well, it hit me right in the chest.
“Maybe it’d be better if you didn’t come round quite so much… Perhaps Thomas could visit you instead,” she muttered, avoiding my gaze.
I hadn’t seen that coming. Her voice was icy, and her expression—was it irritation? I wasn’t sure. After that chat, I stopped visiting. Just vanished from their routine, not wanting to be a nuisance. My son started coming alone. Emily never set foot in our house again.
I didn’t complain. Not to anyone. But inside? It stung. What had I done wrong? I’d only ever wanted to help. My whole life, I’d tried to keep the peace, and now suddenly, my presence was a burden. It hurt, realising you’re not really welcome.
Time passed. Then they had a baby—our long-awaited grandson. My husband and I were over the moon, but we kept our distance, only visiting when invited, taking the little one for walks to give them space. We did everything we could not to be *those* in-laws.
And then—the call. Emily. Her voice clipped, almost businesslike.
“Could you look after the baby at ours today? I’ve got something urgent to sort.”
Not a request—a statement. As if *we* were the ones begging for time with our grandson. As if she hadn’t spent months pushing me away.
I wrestled with it. Pride said: *Tell her no.* But sense whispered: *This is your chance.* Not for her—for the baby. For Thomas. For peace. Still, I surprised myself with my reply.
“Bring him to ours. You asked me not to come over without good reason, after all. I don’t want to intrude.”
Silence. Then, grudgingly, she agreed.
When she dropped him off, it was like Christmas morning for me and my husband. We played, we laughed, we took him to the park—the day flew by. There’s no joy like being grandparents! But underneath, the hurt still gnawed at me. How was I supposed to act now?
Keep my distance? Wait for her to make the first move? Swallow my pride and pretend nothing happened? For my grandson, I’d do just about anything. I’d forgive. I’d forget. I’d try again.
But do they even *want* me? Does *she*?
I don’t know if she’ll ever realise how easy it is to break something that took years to build—and how hard it is to put the pieces back together.
