It sometimes feels like I’m not living in reality but in some absurd theatre play. My son, a grown man, has turned back into a boy who lets others make his choices. And my daughter-in-law—she’s the director, orchestrating their shared life while I stand backstage, purse in hand, always ready to step in. Only my strength dwindles, while their demands for my patience grow.
From the start, they lived together—even before the wedding. At first, my son stayed with me, in my house, while his then-girlfriend rented a room with a mate. When marriage came up, they got a flat together. I didn’t interfere—let them build their life as they saw fit. I helped with money when asked. We’re not millionaires, but I understood—young people struggle. I’d been there myself.
But what I can’t wrap my head around is this new idea of theirs—to have a child, now, of all times. No stable job, no home of their own, no savings. Yet they declare loudly that the baby won’t wait, time is slipping, she can’t have children after thirty, and it’ll all work out somehow. As usual, my son nods along without a second thought. I look at him and barely recognise him. Where’s your sense, son? Where’s your grown-up stance? Why do you still let others steer your life?
He has a job, yes, but the kind where paychecks vanish or shrink without warning. He’s had five different jobs, if not more. Always something—a dodgy boss, a collapsing company. My daughter-in-law earns pennies. And yet they’ve moved flats multiple times already. Just the two of them—it’s manageable. But with a newborn? The midnight screams, the packing, the boxes? Who’ll bear that?
I tried to talk sense into them. Wait a few years, settle down, save up—then think of children. No. It’s decided. She *needs* it now. And my son, hypnotised—”Yeah, let’s do it.” So am I to prepare for the role of not just grandmother but second mother to this child? Helping is one thing, but I’m not getting any younger, nor are my resources endless.
What if they can’t cope? What if, in a month’s time, they can’t pay rent or buy nappies and formula? Who’ll be left holding the bag? Me. Because I could never turn away my own son and grandchild. And that terrifies me. I’m already stretched thin—my own troubles, bills, my health. I’m not made of steel.
And my daughter-in-law… she says, grinning, almost cheerfully: “We’ll manage somehow.” That *somehow* sounds light, careless, like she’s planning a picnic—not bringing a new life into the world. Meanwhile, my stomach knots. Why won’t they think, weigh it, *plan*?
I’m no enemy to children. I’d love a grandkid. I dream of cuddling one, teaching them, reading them stories. But I want it to happen in love, in security, with thought—not in chaos and debt. I want my grandchild to feel wanted, to have what they need—a cot, warm clothes—to grow up knowing their parents can handle things. Not to sense that everything hangs on Nan.
I look at them and think: if they just waited a few years, it could all be different. A steady job, savings, a better flat—maybe even a mortgage. Isn’t it possible to live sensibly, not on a whim? But this family seems to leap first and hunt for a parachute later, leaving someone else to pull them from the wreck.
I stay quiet. My words would go in one ear and straight out the other. Yet somewhere deep, I’m already bracing. Bracing for sleepless nights, for another financial strain, for a duty I never asked for but will carry anyway. Because when children come, it’s the older ones who must sacrifice. Because love isn’t just joy—it’s surrender, too. And somewhere, beneath it all, a desperate hope that *someone* in this chain will finally grow up.
