At last, I had a life of my own—but my daughter called me mad and forbade me from seeing my granddaughter.
My whole existence had been for my daughter. Then—for my granddaughter. Never once did I complain, never asked for anything in return. Yet it seemed they’d both forgotten I was more than just a free nanny and housemaid. I was a woman. With my own feelings, desires, and a right to happiness.
I was twenty-one when I married. My husband—Edward—was quiet, steady, a hard worker. We weren’t wealthy, but we had peace. When our daughter was two, he left on a job—hauling goods in a lorry. Did he return? No. He died. How—no one ever told me. So there I was, alone with little Emily in my arms.
His parents were long gone, mine lived miles away. There was no help to be found. The only salvation was the home Edward left behind. I tried working from there—private tutoring, since I was a teacher by training. But believe me, teaching while a fussy toddler races about is no easy task.
Then my mother took Emily to live with her. For nearly two years, she stayed with her grandparents while I worked like a dog. Teaching at the school, tutoring evenings. Every weekend, I traveled to see her. Every time I left—my heart cracked.
When Emily started nursery, I prayed she wouldn’t fall ill—because I couldn’t afford to stay home. Luckily, she was sturdy. Then came primary school. Then university. I carried it all alone. Working dawn to dusk just to buy her decent clothes, shoes, food, extra lessons.
When she graduated and found work, I felt it for the first time: *It’s over. I’m free.* Only, freedom tasted like loneliness. My parents were gone, I had no close friends—too busy surviving. Even the cat became my only conversation.
And then little Charlotte was born. I moved in with Emily months before the birth—helping with shopping, washing, meals, packing the hospital bag. After, I took full charge of the baby—Emily went back to work early.
But I didn’t complain. If anything—I bloomed. Feeling needed again. When Charlotte started school, I’d fetch her after lessons. We’d have lunch, do homework, stroll in the park. On one such walk, I met William.
He, too, was a grandparent—raising his granddaughter. His story mirrored mine: widowed young, helping his daughter. We began talking. The chats grew longer. Then he suggested meeting… without the girls. For coffee.
Honestly? I froze. The last time I’d been asked out was thirty years ago. But I said yes. And just like that, joy crept back into my life. We went to the cinema, exhibitions, simple walks. I felt like a woman again.
But my daughter didn’t understand. One morning, Emily called:
*”James and I are visiting friends. Can you take Charlotte for the weekend?”*
*”Sorry, love, I’ll be away. You should’ve said sooner.”*
*”Oh, with that… William again?”* she hissed.
I was stunned. *”Emily, what’s this tone? You know I’m always there for Charlotte. But I’m not a permanent nanny.”*
*”You’ve forgotten her completely! Just months ago you swore off ‘silly romances’—now you’re gallivanting about like some lovesick girl!”*
*”Yes, gallivanting,”* I said evenly. *”Because I’m alive. Because I’m happy. And I thought you’d be happy for me.”*
*”Happy?! You traded your granddaughter for some pensioner! Sort yourself out, Mum—you’ve gone barmy! Don’t expect to see Charlotte until you snap out of it!”*
I sat there, numb. My own daughter. I’d given her everything. Sacrificed every dream for her comfort. Raised her single-handedly. Supported her. Helped raise *her* child. And now? Now I was a “mad old biddy” who’d “lost the plot” for daring to want happiness?
I wept all evening. Didn’t tell William why. He just held me and murmured, *”You’ve a right to live. To love. To be loved.”*
But inside, I’d shriveled. A life without Emily? Without Charlotte? Unthinkable. I pray she cools off and calls. Prays she sees—her mother never stopped being a grandmother. She just remembered, at long last, how to be a woman.
And haven’t I earned that much?…
