My daughter-in-law once asked me not to visit so often. I stopped going… but then one day, she called me herself and asked for help.
After my son’s wedding, I made it my duty to visit their home as much as I could. I never came empty-handed—always baking cakes, bringing treats, or making their favourite meals. My daughter-in-law, Eleanor, would praise my cooking, always eager to taste it first. It seemed to me we had a warm, trusting bond. I was overjoyed to be of use, to feel close to them. Most of all, I wanted to be part of their family—not as an outsider, but as someone cherished.
Then one day, everything changed. I dropped by, and only Eleanor was home. We had our usual cup of tea, but something in her manner unsettled me. There was a flicker of unease in her eyes, as if she wanted to say something but hesitated. When the words finally came, they struck like a knife.
“It would be best if you didn’t come round so often. Perhaps Edward could visit you instead,” she said, avoiding my gaze.
I hadn’t expected it. Her voice was ice, and in her eyes—was it annoyance? I couldn’t say. After that, I never went back. I vanished from their daily lives, unwilling to intrude or irritate. My son came alone when he visited. Eleanor never set foot in our house again.
I kept silent. I never complained, though the hurt coiled inside me. What had I done wrong? I only ever wanted to help. All my life, I’d kept peace in the family, only now my care had become a burden. It was painful, realising I wasn’t welcome.
Time passed. Their child was born—our long-awaited grandson. My husband, George, and I were over the moon. Still, we held back—visiting only when invited, taking the little one for walks so as not to impose. We did everything to avoid being a nuisance.
Then one day—the phone rang. Eleanor. A quiet, almost formal voice asked,
“Could you watch the baby at our house today? I’ve urgent matters to attend to.”
It wasn’t a request but a demand, as if we were the ones begging for the favour. As if she hadn’t once told me to stay away.
I thought long on how to answer. Pride told me to refuse. But sense whispered: this was a chance—not for her, but for the child. For Edward. For peace. Still, I replied differently.
“Better bring him here. You once asked us not to visit without need. I won’t trespass in your home.”
A silence. Then, after a moment, she agreed. When she brought him, George and I felt it was Christmas. We played, laughed, walked—the day flew by. What joy, being grandparents! Yet bitterness lingered. How was I to act now?
Stay distant? Wait for her to reach out? Or swallow my pride and mend things? For my grandson, I’d do much. I’d forgive, forget harsh words. I’d try again.
But do they want me? Does she?
I wonder if she knows how easily trust is broken—and how hard it is to piece back together.
