**Diary Entry – 12th June, 2024**
I never thought my golden years would be spent like this—trapped in my own kitchen, my home no longer my own. My daughter, Emily, visits every day with her three children, and what began as a joy has become a burden. I love them, truly, but I’m exhausted.
We live in a quiet market town near Manchester, where the streets are lined with roses and the houses have tiny, well-kept gardens. At 64, I should be enjoying my retirement—reading, visiting friends, taking long walks—but instead, I’m elbow-deep in dishes and leftovers. Emily’s husband, James, works long hours as a lorry driver, and money’s tight, so they rely on me. At first, I didn’t mind.
“Mum, your roast dinners are the best,” Emily would say, and my heart would swell. I’d bake Victoria sponges, simmer steak and kidney pies, buy extra groceries with my pension. But now, it’s expected. My flat has become their canteen, and I’m just the staff.
The children—Sophie (10), Harry (7), and little Lily (4)—burst in like a storm every afternoon. Sophie demands crisps, Harry begs for biscuits, Lily whines for sweets. They trample mud on the carpets, spill Ribena on the sofa, and leave Lego scattered everywhere. Emily barely lifts a finger. “Gran, you don’t mind, do you?” she’ll say, while I grit my teeth.
Lately, she’s started taking food home—slipping pork pies into her bag, wrapping up leftover shepherd’s pie. “James loves your cooking,” she’ll murmur, and I nod, though my purse grows lighter each week. Yesterday, Sophie knocked over my favourite teacup, and Harry snapped the hinge off my cupboard. Emily just laughed. “Kids will be kids!” she said, as if that excused it all.
My friend Margaret tells me I’m being taken for a ride. But how do I say no? Emily flares up if I hint they should visit less. “We can’t afford takeaways every night, Mum,” she snaps, yet I see her in new dresses while I count pennies for my own groceries.
I’m caught between love and exhaustion. If I speak up, will she keep the children from me? But if I don’t, will I spend my last good years as their unpaid cook?
Perhaps the hardest lesson is this: love shouldn’t mean surrender. I’ll find the words—for my sake, and hers. Because a home should be a sanctuary, not a service. And I refuse to spend my days as anyone’s kitchen.
