When my daughter called and asked me to stay with her for a week, I didn’t hesitate for a second. She was preparing for some important exams and needed help with her two-year-old. All my friends thought I’d lost the plot—*”Honestly, Evelyn, must you always be the one to step in? Say ‘yes’ once, and you’ll never wiggle free!”* But how could I refuse? She’s my daughter. That’s my grandson.
I arrived at their modest two-bed flat in a quiet London suburb with just one suitcase and the earnest intention of being useful. But I quickly realised—I wasn’t just Grandma. I was the housekeeper, the cook, the laundress, and—the cherry on top—a full-time unpaid babysitter.
My son-in-law was working round the clock, and my daughter was glued to her laptop, studying. So the entire household landed on my shoulders: cooking, cleaning, the washing machine, and the dishwasher—which, incidentally, was broken, so I had to scrub every plate by hand.
Fine, I thought. I’ll manage. It’s only a week. One. Single. Week.
But the week stretched into two, then three. Before I knew it, a whole month had slipped by. My daughter passed her exams—only to start firing off CVs, hunting for a job. I didn’t leave—how else would they manage? The little one needed me.
No one *asked* me to stay. But no one *let* me leave, either. It just… happened. I saw they needed me, so I stayed. Except, day by day, I caught more exasperated glances. First, because the soup wasn’t *quite* right. Then, because I’d hung my son-in-law’s shirts *all wrong*. And then, suddenly, I was *in the way*.
In their home, I’d become something like a ghost—helping, doing, but feeling entirely out of place. No one said, *”Mum, thank you.”* No one dared to admit, *”Mum, maybe it’s time you went home.”* Just sidelong smirks and heavy sighs. Meanwhile, I’d hoped—just a little—that when they saw how much I did, they’d thank me. Or hug me. Or at least offer me a proper cup of tea, not the cheap bagged stuff.
I never imagined my love and help would turn into this invisible imprisonment.
Back home in my cosy studio flat in Kensington, everything’s mine. My knitting, my well-worn books, the violets on the windowsill. But here I am. Up at six to make breakfast, then feed, dress, and chase after the toddler. Lunch, laundry, mopping—then dinner. And at night, I lie on the sofa in the nursery and wonder: *Is this forever now?*
But I’m a mother. A grandmother. I won’t walk away. I’ll wait. Wait for the day my daughter says, *”Mum, we’re so grateful for you.”* Or even just, *”Mum, you must be exhausted—sit down.”* Maybe my son-in-law will crack a smile and admit, *”We’d be lost without you.”*
So far—silence.
Maybe they just don’t realise yet. Maybe the young need time to grasp what a mother’s sacrifice costs. Yes, sometimes I feel like they take me for granted—like I’m a resource, not a person.
But I’ll keep hoping. Keep believing my love and patience won’t go unnoticed. I don’t want my kindness to become a burden they’ll lug around in guilt. I want it to be their foundation—to teach my daughter, when *she’s* older, the weight of *giving*, not just taking.
They may not be ready yet. I’ll wait.
I’m a mother. And like all mothers, my heart has an endless well of faith—even when it aches.
