Grandma’s Playing with Our Nerves: A Cry for Help or Just Pretending?
My name is Emily. I’m 37, married, with a 56-year-old mum and an 85-year-old grandma—Granny Vera. We live in a small town in Yorkshire, where winters are harsh and the roads between houses feel endless, especially when you’re racing through the snow in the dead of night.
Despite her age, Granny Vera stubbornly lives alone in an old cottage on the town’s edge. She outright refuses to move in with Mum, though the offer’s been made countless times. Granny insists her home is her castle, and no one will drag her away. But lately, her loneliness seems unbearable, and she’s found a way to keep us on edge.
Nearly every day, Granny calls Mum or me, her voice trembling, claiming she feels “awfully poorly.” She groans, says her “heart’s fluttering” or her “legs won’t hold her.” We drop everything, hearts pounding, and rush over—only to find her perfectly fine. There she is, bustling about, offering tea and jam, even cracking jokes. We’re left standing there, baffled, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.
We’re exhausted by this game. Every call jolts us like an electric shock, but we can’t ignore it. What if it’s serious this time? What if we don’t go and something terrible happens? The guilt gnaws at us.
It started a year ago. Mum and I raced to her cottage at four in the morning during a snowstorm, barely dressed—me in a t-shirt, Mum in an old coat thrown over her pyjamas. We thought we’d find her on death’s door, but Granny greeted us with a smile, saying it was “just her blood pressure.” Half an hour later, she was pulling out her famous blackberry jam, urging us to eat. We were stunned but brushed it off as a one-off.
We tried to understand. We begged her to see a doctor, but she waved us off, muttering about “quacks just after your money.” So we brought one to her. After checking her over, he said she was in remarkable health for her age. “She needs company,” he told us. “Visit more, and the calls will stop.” How wrong he was.
We do try. I live an hour away; Mum’s closer, but after work, through traffic and fatigue, visiting daily isn’t possible. Weekends alternate—me bringing groceries and staying for tea, Mum helping with chores. On holidays, we arrive together with gifts and flowers. But it’s never enough. She wants more—our attention, our nerves, our time.
Mum’s offered her the best room in her house, promised care and comfort, but Granny won’t budge. “I won’t be a burden,” she says—then rings in the night, whimpering. “I’ll die in my own home.” Those words cut deep, but what can we do?
We’ve begged Granny not to cry wolf. Explained how each call churns our stomachs, steals sleep. But she doesn’t listen—or won’t. The calls keep coming, trapping us: go or stay? Believe her or not? We’re paralysed by fear of getting it wrong.
Sometimes I think she’s just lonely. Missing warmth, chatter, laughter. Maybe these calls are her desperate bid to keep us close. But why this cruel method? Why make us live in constant dread? I don’t have the answer. We love her, but this game drains us. And yet, as long as she calls, we’ll go. Because if we don’t—and something happens—the guilt would crush us forever.
