The children stopped calling me to see my granddaughter, secretly hiring a nanny to avoid crossing paths with me.
My own daughter refuses to speak to me. She won’t even answer my calls. She believes I drove her family to divorce, though I did nothing wrong—she was the one who begged for my help.
Emily married at eighteen. She met Andrew just after he returned from his military service. Love bloomed quickly, and soon she abandoned her studies, spiralling downward, deaf to my advice. I took them both under my roof to spare them the hardship of rented lodgings. At first, all was well, and we got on fine even after the wedding. Then Emily fell pregnant and began snapping at me, saying my cooking made her sick. I insisted they move out.
We—my husband and I—agreed to pool money with Andrew’s parents for a home, knowing the young couple couldn’t manage alone. I tried ringing Emily’s father, hoping he’d help settle the matter, but he said he’d paid his dues in child support and owed us nothing.
When Emily gave birth, I helped endlessly. I spent every spare moment with my granddaughter so the new mother could rest. Soon, Emily began feigning ailments, even inventing illnesses to shift parenting duties onto me.
I often sent them off on dates, to the cinema or dinner, even covering their ten-day seaside holiday. I adored minding the little one, so it was no trouble—though I was bone-tired, but what wouldn’t one do for a daughter’s happiness?
When they returned, I suggested Andrew refurbish the house. He did little after work, despite his flexible hours. I brought them building supplies and took my granddaughter for a fortnight, even sending over a crew so he wouldn’t overexert himself. Then the accusations came. Apparently, Andrew resented my orders. But what choice had I, when he showed no initiative?
After the renovations, our contact dwindled to nothing. They stopped inviting me over, quietly hiring a nanny to keep me away. Naturally, I was hurt—yet for my sixtieth birthday, I gathered all our kin. Emily came with my granddaughter alone. Andrew didn’t even call. The sting was sharper than I expected. After all I’d done—after paying for that refurbishment—did I deserve such treatment?
Andrew shouted that I’d dogged him with instructions, that he was master of his house and wanted no sight of me.
Perhaps I overstepped, but my intentions were good. Now Emily fights constantly with her husband, blaming me. She weeps down the line, listing grievances. Andrew speaks of divorce. I’m barred from my granddaughter—not even allowed to hear her voice.
I lived for them. What am I to do now? Why do they despise me so?
