At last, I have a life of my own—but my daughter thinks I’ve lost my mind and has barred me from seeing my granddaughter.
My entire life has been devoted to my daughter, and later, to her child. I never complained, never asked for anything in return. But it seems they’ve both forgotten I’m not just some unpaid nanny or housekeeper. I’m a woman—with feelings, desires, and a right to happiness.
I was twenty-one when I married. My husband, Theodore, was quiet, hardworking, steady. We weren’t well off, but we were content. When our daughter, Emily, was two, he left on a job—driving a lorry to deliver goods. Did he return? No. He was killed. How? I was never told. I was left alone with little Emily.
His parents were already gone; mine lived in another city. There was no one to help. The only lifeline was the home Theodore had left me. I tried working from there—private tutoring, since I was a teacher by training. But believe me, giving lessons while a restless child runs about is no easy feat.
Eventually, my mother took Emily in. For almost two years, she lived with her grandparents while I worked myself to the bone—teaching at a school, tutoring evenings, visiting every weekend. Each time I left, my heart cracked a little more.
When Emily started nursery, I prayed she wouldn’t fall ill because I couldn’t afford to stay home. Thankfully, she was sturdy. Then came school, then university. I carried it all alone—working dawn till dusk to provide her with decent clothes, shoes, food, and lessons.
When she graduated and found work, I felt it for the first time: freedom. But freedom meant loneliness. My parents had passed, I had no close friends—just years of endless chores. Even the cat became my only confidant.
Then Charlotte was born. I moved in with Emily months before the birth—helping with shopping, laundry, meals, packing the hospital bag. When she returned to work early, I took full charge of the baby.
And I didn’t mind. In fact, I thrived. I felt needed again. Once Charlotte started school, I’d collect her each afternoon—we’d have lunch, do homework, walk in the park. On one such walk, I met Henry.
He, too, was a grandparent—raising his granddaughter. His story mirrored mine: widowed young, helping his daughter. We talked. Our chats grew longer. Then he asked to meet… just us. For coffee.
Honestly? I was flustered. No one had asked me out in thirty years. But I said yes. And like that, joy returned. We went to the cinema, exhibitions, simple strolls. I felt like a woman again.
But my daughter didn’t understand. One morning, Emily rang:
“We’re visiting friends this weekend. Can you take Charlotte?”
“Sorry, love, but I’ll be away. You should’ve asked sooner.”
“What—with that Henry again?” she snapped.
I was stunned. “Emily, what’s this tone? You know I’m always there for Charlotte. But I’m not an eternal babysitter.”
“You’ve forgotten her entirely! One minute you say you don’t need a life, the next you’re galivanting about!”
“Yes, I am,” I said calmly. “Because I’m living. Because I’m happy. And I thought you’d be happy for me.”
“Happy?! You’ve chosen some man over your own granddaughter! Sort yourself out, Mum—you’ve lost the plot! Don’t expect to see Charlotte until you come to your senses!”
I sat there, unable to believe these were my daughter’s words. I gave her my whole life—sacrifices, sleepless nights, every penny. Raised her alone. Nursed her through fevers, cheered her triumphs. And now? I’m the “mad woman” whose “crow’s nest is unravelling” because I dared to seek happiness?
I wept all evening. I didn’t tell Henry. He just held me and said, “You’ve a right to live. To love. To be loved.”
But inside, I’m hollow. I can’t imagine life without Emily. Without Charlotte. I’m terrified I’ll lose them for good. I pray she’ll cool off and call. That she’ll understand—her mother didn’t stop being a grandmother. She simply remembered how to be a woman, one who’s finally, after all these years, found a sliver of joy.
Haven’t I earned that much?…
