Sometimes it feels like I’m not living in reality but in some absurd theatre play. My son, a grown man, acts as if he’s a boy again, letting others make decisions for him. And his wife—she’s the director of this production, orchestrating their shared life while I stand backstage, purse in hand, always ready to help. Except my patience wears thinner by the day, and their demands grow larger.
They’ve lived together from the start, even before the wedding. At first, my son stayed with me in my house, while his then-girlfriend rented a room with a friend. When marriage came up, they got a flat together. I kept my distance—let them build their own life, however they could. I chipped in with money when they asked. We’re not rich, of course, but I understood—they’re young, struggling. I’ve been there myself.
But what I can’t wrap my head around is their decision to have a baby now—right now. No stable jobs, no proper home, no savings. Just bold declarations—how a baby can’t wait, how she can’t risk having children past thirty, how things will “just work out.” And, as usual, my son nods along, agreeing without hesitation. I look at him and hardly recognise him. Where’s your common sense, son? Where’s your backbone? Why do you let someone else steer your life with no say of your own?
He works, yes, but at jobs where paychecks come late or disappear without warning. He’s switched jobs at least five times—nothing ever sticks. Either the boss is unfair or the company folds. His wife barely earns a pittance. And yet, they’ve already moved flats several times. It’s manageable with just the two of them. But with a baby? The midnight cries, the nappies, the endless boxes from moving—who’s meant to handle all that?
I tried talking sense into them. Live for yourselves first, settle down, save up, then think about children. No. The decision’s made. She wants it now. And my son, like he’s hypnotised—”Of course, love.” So I’m to prepare not just for being a grandmother, but a second mother to this child? Helping is one thing—I get that. But I’m not getting any younger, and my resources aren’t endless.
What if they can’t manage? What if in a few months they can’t pay rent or afford nappies and formula? Who’ll be left holding the bill? Me. Because I can’t say no to my own son and grandchild. And that terrifies me. I’m already stretched thin—my own bills, my health, my life. I’m not made of steel.
And his wife… she just smiles, breezily saying, “We’ll manage somehow.” That “somehow” sounds light, careless—like planning a picnic, not bringing a whole new life into the world. And inside, my stomach knots—why won’t they think it through, weigh the costs, count the risks?
I’m no enemy to children. I long to cradle a grandbaby, tell them stories, watch them grow. But I want that child loved, provided for, wanted—not raised in chaos and debt. I want a grandchild who never feels like a burden, who has everything from a proper cot to warm clothes. Who grows up knowing Mum and Dad can handle things—not sensing everything hinges on Grandma.
I look at them and think—if they just waited a few years, everything could be different. A steady job, savings, a nicer flat, maybe even a mortgage. It’s possible to live sensibly, not just wing it. But in their world, they leap first and look for a parachute later. And someone else—me—ends up pulling them from the wreckage.
I stay quiet. My words would go in one ear and out the other. But deep down, I’m already bracing myself. For sleepless nights, for another financial strain, for a responsibility I never asked for but will carry anyway. Because when children come into the picture, the ones who sacrifice are always the elders. Because love isn’t just joy—it’s sacrifice, too. And somewhere, I still hope—just once—someone in this chain will finally grow up.
