I Agreed to Look After My Best Friend’s Child, Not Knowing the Child Was My Husband’s

Author Walton MerrittReading 5 minViews 1

I agreed to look after my best friends child, blissfully unaware that the father was my very own husband.

My best friend, Charlotte, fell pregnant four years ago. Back then, my life was uneventful in the best possible waymarried, stable, with a house in the suburbs and a dog named Marmite. Charlotte, on the other hand, found herself alone, partnerless, and not a whiff of security in sight. One day she rang me up in tears, and between sobs managed to say she had no clue what to do with the baby. She had to work, and there was absolutely no one to help.

Youre the only person I trust, Katie, she sniffled.

Of course I agreed. She was my best mate, my partner in crime since we were six and overdosed on sherbet lemons together.

At first, her little girl, Daisy, would stay at mine just for a couple of hours. Then whole days. Suddenly, I was the one doing bath time routines, tackling mashed peas, and rocking her to sleep in my arms. My husband, Richard, was always around too. He played with her, bought her those noisy plastic toys, and even changed nappies without complaint. I figured he was just being lovely.

Charlotte dropped by all the time, sometimes for lunch, sometimes just for a cuppa and a chat. Occasionally Id find myself chattering away to Richard in the kitchen, while Charlotte nipped upstairs for a lie down. It was all innocent, I thought. I trusted them both without a second thought.

Then there were the little things, which, looking back, couldnt have been more obvious if theyd lit up like Oxford Street at Christmas. Daisy had Richards nose, his dimpled grin. But I brushed it asidechildren often look a bit like someone, dont they? Then, one afternoon as Daisy was stacking blocks, she called me mummy. Charlotte just giggled, Oh, they all get muddled at this age! I laughed along, determined not to read too much into it.

It all came tumbling down on the day Daisy fell ill. She had a blazing temperature, and Charlotte was off at some conference in Manchester, unreachable. I panicked and whisked Daisy off to A&E. Richard insisted on coming with us. At reception, the nurse asked for the fathers details. No one looked directly at him, but Richard, all on his own, blurted out his full name: Richard George Thompson.

My stomach dropped to my knees. Later, outside in the car park, I asked, Why did you give your name, Richard?
He shrugged sheepishly, I dont know I was worried.
But his face gave away more than his words.

By the time we got home, I needed answers. In our driveway, I turned to him bluntly:
Is Daisy your child?

He denied it. Told me I was being ridiculous, asked me angrily how I could even think such a thing. But I pushed, and pushed, until he fell silent and dropped his gaze. Anyone whos ever watched EastEnders can tell youthat silence says everything.

That evening, I called Charlotte and told her to come over, pronto. When she arrived, I didnt bother with pleasantries.

Is Daisy Richards child?

She burst into tears, blubbering her apologies. I never wanted to hurt you, Katie, she wailed.

I replied, You let me look after your child and never once told me the truth.

She confessed that, when she fell pregnant, Richard had begged her not to say a word. He promised hed take responsibility, just as long as I never knew. Well, hed certainly done that. Daisy had spent half her childhood in my lounge. Id wiped her nose, bought her shoes, tucked her in. All while Richard hovered helpfully nearby.

That was the night it all clicked. Why Daisy spent so much time at ours. Why Richard never grumbled about helping. Why Charlotte trusted me more than anyone. I was nanny, nurse, substitute mumto my husbands child.

Something inside me simply snapped.

By the end of the week, my marriage was over, and so was my dearest friendship. You cant un-bake a cake, and there was no putting this one back in the tin.

Daisy is innocent in this, I know that. But I couldnt bear to see her any longer. Now, finally, I live quietly in my own home, with only Marmite for companyno more room for people who managed to betray me without ever breaking a sweat.

Do I Remember? I Can’t Forget! “Polly, we need to talk… Remember my illegitimate daughter, Nancy?” My husband spoke in riddles, making me uneasy. “Hmm… Do I remember? I could never forget! Why?” I sat down, bracing myself for trouble. He hesitated. “Nancy is begging us to take her daughter—my granddaughter.” “Why on earth, Alex? Where’s Nancy’s husband—living in dreamland?” Now I was intrigued. Alex explained: “Nancy doesn’t have long left. Never had a husband. Her mother married an American and moved to the States—massive falling out, no contact. No other family. That’s why she’s asking…” Alex looked embarrassed. “So?” I pressed. “What are you going to do?” I already knew my answer. “I’m asking you, Polly. Whatever you say, we’ll do,” Alex finally met my gaze. “Very clever—you sowed your wild oats, and now, Polly, you want me to take responsibility for someone else’s child? Is that right?” I was furious at his weakness. “Polly, we’re a family. We decide together,” Alex protested. “Oh! Now you remember. But when you were fooling around, did you ask my advice? I’m your wife!” I burst into tears and left the room. …Back in school, I dated my classmate, Val, but when new boy Alex showed up, I forgot everyone else. We became inseparable; within a week, I was in love. When Alex was drafted into the army, I cried my eyes out on the train platform. For a year, we wrote letters—until he confessed he’d met someone else. By then, I was already pregnant, thanks to Alex’s fleeting promises. Old Val stepped up and helped; truth be told, we became close. I never expected to see Alex again—until he turned up at my door, and Val had to let him in. After some awkwardness, Alex said, “I’ve come back for you, Polly. Will you have me?” I let him back. My son needed his father—not just a stepdad. Val moved on, too, and found happiness of his own. Years passed. Alex could never quite love our son as a father should—certain he was Val’s child. Meanwhile, Alex strayed constantly, but I couldn’t stop loving him. The one who loves is always happily oblivious. I forgave everything. When we argued and Alex left, months later, I tracked him down at his new girlfriend’s flat. Turns out she had his daughter, Nancy. I always blamed myself for driving him away then—perhaps that other woman wouldn’t have swooped in if I hadn’t sent Alex away. We never mentioned Nancy. I pretended her existence didn’t threaten our family. With time, Alex settled down. Our son married young and gave us three lovely grandchildren. Then, out of the blue, Nancy resurfaced, asking us to take in her little daughter. Hard questions followed—how to explain her to our son, who never knew about his father’s past? In the end, we became guardians to five-year-old Alice. Nancy died at thirty—her journey over. Alex spoke honestly to our son, who said, “What’s past is past. The girl is family—she belongs with us.” We breathed easier, grateful for our kind-hearted son. Now Alice is sixteen, adores Granddad Alex, shares secrets with him, and calls me Nan—saying she’s the spitting image of me in my youth. And I can’t help but agree…

Winter had wrapped Andrew’s garden in a soft blanket of snow, but his loyal dog Duke, a giant German Shepherd, was acting strangely. Instead of curling up in the large kennel Andrew had lovingly built for him last summer, Duke stubbornly refused to sleep inside, choosing instead to lie out in the snow. Andrew watched from the window, his heart tightening—Duke had never behaved like this before. Every morning, as Andrew stepped outside, he noticed how Duke eyed him warily. Whenever Andrew approached the kennel, the dog would position himself protectively between him and the entrance, growling softly and staring up as if to plead, “Please, don’t go in there.” Such odd behavior from his longtime friend troubled Andrew deeply—what was his faithful companion hiding? Determined to uncover the truth, Andrew crafted a little plan—tempting Duke into the kitchen with a juicy steak. While the dog, locked inside, barked fiercely at the window, Andrew returned to the kennel and knelt to peer inside. His heart nearly stopped as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he saw something that left him frozen in shock… …Inside, tucked under a blanket, was a tiny kitten—dirty, frozen, and barely breathing. Its eyes flickered weakly open, its body shivering with cold. Somewhere, Duke had found it, and instead of chasing it off or leaving it to its fate, had given it shelter. Duke slept outside so he wouldn’t frighten the kitten, guarding the entrance as if protecting hidden treasure. Andrew held his breath. He reached out gently, gathered the little creature in his arms, and pressed it to his chest. Instantly, Duke ran over and nestled beside his shoulder—not growling, but calm and ready to help. “You’re a good boy, Duke…” Andrew whispered, hugging the kitten. “Better than most people.” From that day on, there were no longer just two friends living in the garden, but three. And the kennel Andrew had built with so much care found new purpose—a little home for rescued souls.

I Looked After My Grandchildren for Free – Then My Daughter Gave Me a List of Criticisms About My Parenting – “Oh Mum, not again! You’ve given them those supermarket gingerbread biscuits! We agreed – only gluten-free cookies from the bakery on Queen’s Road,” Marina’s voice rang with outrage, as if I’d committed a major crime rather than serving up a snack for two five-year-olds. “They’re full of sugar and trans fats! Do you want them breaking out in rashes again? Or bouncing off the walls before bed?” Jean sighed heavily, brushing crumbs from the table into her palm. She wanted to say that the kids had outright refused the overpriced gluten-free biscuits from the local artisan bakery, calling them “cardboard,” and had wolfed down regular gingerbread as if it was nectar from the gods. But she kept silent. Lately, she’d learned it was easier not to stoke already simmering tensions. Her only daughter, Marina, stood in the kitchen in a sharp business suit, anxiously checking the time on her phone. She was late for an important meeting, but the nutrition lecture clearly took precedence over London’s morning traffic. “Marina, they were starving after the park,” Jean tried, rinsing mugs under the tap. “They barely touched their soup, just picked at their main. They needed a bit of energy.” “Energy, Mum, comes from complex carbs, not sugar!” her daughter snapped, reaching for her handbag. “Alright, I have to go. Tim will be back by 8. Please make sure they finish their speech therapy homework – and no screen time! I’ll be checking the browser history.” The door shut behind her, leaving a waft of expensive perfume and heavy tension in the air. Jean collapsed into a chair, feeling her lower back ache. Sixty-two years old, and two years ago she’d given up her job as chief accountant at a small business to help out with her grandsons, Ben and Charlie, at her daughter’s insistence. “Why bother working, Mum?” Tim, her son-in-law, had persuaded her. “We’ve got this mortgage, we’re both building our careers. We need reliable childcare. Can’t trust a stranger with the boys – and good nannies cost a fortune nowadays. This way, you’re with your grandkids and we can focus on work.” At the time, it sounded fair – even appealing. Jean adored her grandsons, and to be honest, her job had become tiring. She imagined blissful afternoons in the park, storybooks at bedtime, crafts at the kitchen table. The reality, of course, was quite different. Now, her working day began at 7 a.m. She crossed half the city from her little flat to Marina and Tim’s new build in Chiswick, arriving before the boys woke up. Her daughter and son-in-law left early, returned late; all domestic chores, ferrying kids to their clubs and clinics, all fell on Grandma. Ben was a boisterous five-year-old, Charlie a headstrong three-year-old deep in the “I’ll do it!” phase. That evening, as always, Jean built Lego castles with the boys, coached Ben on his speech therapy (“s” versus “sh” woes), and coaxed them through dinner – broccoli lost once again to sneaky sausages she’d boiled up against orders. After bathtime and bedtime stories, she was barely upright when Tim came home, barely grunting a “thanks” as he grabbed a snack from the fridge. On the bus home, city lights flickering by, Jean realised even “thank you” had become automatic, like she was some kind of washing machine completing a cycle, not a family member. No one asked if she was okay, whether her blood pressure – which had been up-and-down all week with the weather – was any better. Things reached a head that weekend. Normally, Jean stayed home, catching up on sleep or her own errands – but Friday night, Marina rang. “Mum, we need a family meeting on Sunday. Come for lunch – we need to talk seriously,” her daughter said firmly. Jean’s stomach dropped. Nothing good ever followed that tone. That Sunday, she arrived, homemade cheese and onion quiche in hand – Tim’s favourite – but the atmosphere was all wrong: formal, tense, the kids banished to watch Disney Plus while the adults sat at the table with laptops and notepads. “We’ve reviewed the past six months,” said Marina, avoiding eye contact. “We need to systematise the boys’ upbringing. There are things we’re quite unhappy about.” “We’ve drawn up a list,” Tim chimed in, spinning his laptop so she could see their Excel spreadsheet with bullet points and colour-coded highlights. “First: Diet,” Marina began, pen-tapping her notepad. “You systematically break their meal plan. Gingerbread, sausages, homemade bakes – it’s a carb overload! We need you to stick exactly to the menu on the fridge. No exceptions.” “They won’t eat turkey burgers, Marina – they’re children!” Jean tried to protest. “Second: Routine,” Tim interrupted. “Last week Charlie went to bed at 9.30, not 9. That’s unacceptable.” Jean recalled that night: Charlie had tummy ache, she’d soothed him for half an hour, singing lullabies until he dozed off. “Third: Education,” Marina continued. “Ben still confuses colours in English. Are you using the flashcards I bought? He needs structured cognitive exercises, not just cars and blocks.” “Marina, he’s only five! Can’t he just be a little boy? We read, we count conkers in the park…” “Conkers – that’s outdated,” her daughter sniffed. “And discipline – you let them walk all over you. You spoil them. You need to be firmer. No treats, no cuddles for tantrums, timeouts if necessary. You’re too soft. It’s unprofessional.” The word “unprofessional” stung hardest. “And finally,” Tim concluded, “we’ve drawn up a schedule and KPIs… you know, performance indicators. We’ll review progress weekly. If their English doesn’t improve, we’ll need to hire a private tutor – that’s an extra expense we hoped to avoid.” Jean stared at her quiche cooling on the side, at her family’s severe faces, and realized she was just an unpaid contractor failing her targets. “So, that’s a list of grievances?” she asked quietly. “Mum, don’t put it like that – just growth opportunities,” Marina grimaced. “We want an organised approach.” Jean rose. Years of senior accounting had taught her to keep her composure, even during ugly audits. “You want a professional teacher, dietitian, chef, cleaner – with fluent English, Montessori training, and military-style discipline. Well, let’s talk contracts. A nanny like that in London is £15 an hour, minimum – twelve hours a day, five days a week. That’s £900 a week, nearly £4,000 a month. Not counting overtime, cooking, and cleaning for the whole family.” Tim laughed nervously. “Jean, you’re their grandma! Not a contractor!” “A Granny,” she replied icily, “is someone who spoils her grandkids at weekends, brings treats, and tells stories – on her own terms. Someone forced to abide a list of demands and KPIs is a paid worker. And paid work deserves wages. We abolished slavery long ago.” “Mum, how can you talk about money? We’re family!” Marina gasped. “I’ve done this for love, but love isn’t valued here. You’ve made it transactional. So – I’m resigning. Find yourselves a proper professional nanny for your spreadsheet.” The shock on their faces was plain. That week, Jean ignored their calls, caught up on sleep, met old friends for lunch, bought herself a new dress for the first time in years, and finally read the book she’d had on her bedside for ages. Eventually, Marina caved. They’d found a new nanny – a stern woman who charged a fortune, ate organic-only, watched the kids like a boot-camp sergeant. The boys, missing Grandma’s warmth, wilted under strict rules. Marina looked exhausted, Tim exasperated. When Jean visited, both daughter and son-in-law finally admitted: “We were idiots. Please come back. No more lists. Just love them. Spoil them with gingerbread. Let them watch Winnie the Pooh. We’ll pay! More than the nanny!” Jean shook her head. “No money. I’m not hired help. I’ll do three days a week, 9 to 6. No evenings, no weekends. I raise them my way, no interference. One cross look or complaint – I’m gone. I help, but I will not be your housekeeper.” They agreed – and fired the nanny. Sometimes, the only way for people to appreciate you is to walk away and let them see the difference. Love, with healthy boundaries, makes a family stronger. Leave the spreadsheets at the office – every granny has her own methods, tried and true, far richer than any KPI.