Sometimes it feels as though I’m not living in reality but trapped in some absurd theatre play. My son, a grown man, behaves as if he’s a boy again, letting others decide for him. And my daughter-in-law—she’s the director of this production, orchestrating their shared life, while I stand backstage, purse always in hand, ready to step in. Yet my strength dwindles, while the demands on my patience grow.
They’ve lived together since the beginning, even before marriage. At first, my son stayed with me in my home, while his then-girlfriend rented a room with a friend. When talk of marriage arose, they took a flat together. I didn’t interfere—let them build their life as they saw fit. I helped with money when they asked. We’re not millionaires, but I understood—young love, tight budgets, I’d been there myself.
But what I can’t fathom is their decision to have a child *now*, of all times. No steady jobs, no home of their own, no savings. Yet they announce it grandly—”a baby won’t wait,” “time’s running out,” “she can’t have children after thirty,” “it’ll all work out.” And, as always, my son nods along, no hesitation. I barely recognize him. Where’s your sense, son? Where’s the man who should stand firm? Why do you let others steer your life again?
He works, sure, but at a place where wages arrive late or vanish without warning. He’s changed jobs at least five times. Always something—a bad boss, a collapsing company. Her earnings? Pocket change. And yet they’ve already moved flats several times. Manageable for two. But with a baby? Packing, moving, midnight wailing—who could endure that?
I tried reasoning gently. “Live for yourselves first,” I said. “Find your footing, save up, settle down—*then* think of children.” No. The decision’s made. She needs it *now*. And my son, entranced—”of course, let’s do it.” So I must prepare not just to be a grandmother, but a second mother to this child? Helping is one thing—but I’m not young forever. My reserves aren’t endless.
What if they fail? What if, in months, they have no rent, no nappies, no formula? Who’ll be left holding the bill? Me, of course. Because I can’t refuse my own son and grandchild. And that terrifies me. I’m already stretched thin—my own burdens, my own bills, my health. I’m not made of steel.
And my daughter-in-law… she says, smiling, almost cheerfully, “We’ll manage somehow.” That “somehow” sounds carefree, as if discussing a picnic, not a new life. And inside, I tighten—why won’t they think, weigh, calculate?
I’m no enemy to children. I’d love grandchildren—to cradle them, teach them, tell them fairy tales. But I want that in love, in comfort, with certainty. Not in chaos and debt. I want my grandchild to have everything—a cot, warm clothes—to grow up sure his parents can cope. Not sensing everything depends on Nana.
I watch them and think: two more years, and things could be different. A stable job, savings, a better flat—even a mortgage. Isn’t it possible to live sensibly, not on blind hope? But in their world, it seems, you leap first and hunt for a parachute later. And someone else must pull you from the wreckage.
I stay silent. My words will go in one ear and straight out the other. Yet deep down, I’m already bracing—for sleepless nights, another financial strain, a responsibility I never asked for but will bear. Because when children arrive, it’s those who came before who must sacrifice. Because love isn’t just joy—it’s surrender. And a quiet, desperate wish that *someone* in this chain might finally grow up.
