I Looked After My Grandkids for Free—Then My Daughter Handed Me a List of Parenting Criticisms and Demands “Really, Mum, not shop-bought gingerbread again! We agreed—only gluten-free biscuits from that bakery on Churchill Road,” Marina’s voice rang with outrage, as if I’d committed the crime of the century—not just given a snack to two little boys. “They’re full of sugar and trans fats! Do you want the boys breaking out in eczema again? Or bouncing off the walls before bed?” Mrs. Nina Goodwin sighed, gently brushing crumbs into her palm. She wanted to say that the gluten-free biscuits (priced like they were made of gold) had been declared “cardboard” and flat-out refused, while the classic gingerbread was demolished with delight. But she kept quiet. Increasingly, silence was her tactic—better not to fan the flames. Marina, her only daughter, stood in the kitchen in a sharp business suit, anxiously checking her watch. She was late for a big meeting, but apparently her lecture about nutrition outweighed London traffic. “Mum, they were starving after their walk,” Nina tried, rinsing cups beneath the tap. “They only picked at the soup and left half their dinner. They need the energy.” “Energy comes from complex carbs, not sugar!” her daughter snapped, grabbing her bag. “Right, I’m off. Oleg will be home by eight. Make sure they finish their speech therapy. And no screens—I’ll be checking the browser history!” The door slammed, leaving a trail of perfume and a swirl of tension. Nina Goodwin sank onto a chair, her back aching. Sixty-two years old. Two years ago, coaxed by her daughter and son-in-law, she’d left her stable job as head accountant for a small company to devote herself to her grandsons, Theo and Paul. “Why work, Mum?” Oleg, her son-in-law, had pleaded. “We earn enough for the mortgage, our careers matter. We need backup. Nursery workers are strangers—and nannies cost the earth. With you here, we’re at ease, and you avoid the commuter crush.” At the time, it sounded logical—even tempting. Nina adored her grandkids, and numbers were becoming tiresome. She’d pictured peaceful park walks and storytime cuddles. The reality was different. Now, her days started at 7am, traversing half of London from her modest flat to the children’s modern terrace, arriving before the boys woke. Marina and Oleg left early, returned late; all housework, medical appointments, clubs, and laundry landed on Nina’s shoulders. Five-year-old Theo was bouncing off the walls; three-year-old Paul was stubborn and prone to tantrums. That evening unfolded as usual. Nina built castles with the boys and explained s versus sh for speech therapy. Then the usual dinner battle—broccoli fell to the mighty sausage, which she’d boiled on the sly, unable to resist hungry eyes. Baths, bedtime stories, lights out. When Oleg clicked the lock, Nina could hardly stand. “Marina home yet?” he asked, sandwich in hand. “Delayed—a meeting,” Nina replied, collecting her bag. “I’d better head or I’ll miss the last bus—can’t afford, these taxi fares.” “Yes, sure,” Oleg called, phone in hand. “Thanks, Mrs Goodwin. Make sure the door locks.” On the bus home, gazing at the city lights, Nina reflected that Oleg’s thank you felt as flat as a washing machine’s end beep. Nobody asked about her health—even as her blood pressure soared. Then, a weekend bombshell: Marina called. “Mum, can you come Sunday for a family chat? We need to talk seriously.” With trepidation, Nina arrived, cabbage pie in hand (Oleg’s favourite). The atmosphere was brisk rather than homey. The boys were tucked away with cartoons (normally forbidden), and the grownups sat around the dining table. Oleg opened a laptop. Marina laid out a notepad. The pie perched, awkward and out of place. “Mum, Oleg and I analysed the past six months,” Marina began, eyes averted. “We need to regularise the boys’ upbringing. Some things just aren’t good enough.” “Not good enough?” Nina felt her hands go cold. “What do you mean?” “We’ve made a list,” Oleg said, revealing an Excel spreadsheet. “Nothing personal, Mrs Goodwin, just constructive criticism to optimise processes.” “Oh, look,” said Marina, ticking down her list, “Point one: Nutrition. You routinely break the boys’ diet—gingerbread, sausages, cakes. We want strict adherence to the meal plan on the fridge. No exceptions.” “They won’t eat turkey burgers, Marina! They’re children; they want something nice.” “Tastes are set young,” Oleg interrupted, “Point two: Sleep. Paul went to bed at 9:30 last week, not 9:00. This disrupts melatonin. That can’t happen.” Nina remembered that night— cradling a poorly Paul, soothing him. “Point three: Education,” Marina fired on. “Theo still confuses his colours in English! Aren’t you using the flashcards? You let them play with cars instead of working on their cognitive abilities.” “He’s five! He needs a childhood!” Nina protested. “We read together and count pinecones in the park—” “Pinecones are outdated,” Marina brushed her off. “And most importantly, discipline. You spoil them. This isn’t a professional approach.” The word “unprofessional” stung most of all. “And finally,” Oleg concluded. “We’re implementing a schedule and a list of KPIs—key performance indicators. We’ll review progress weekly. If there’s no improvement in English, we’ll have to hire a tutor—which our budget can’t afford. We expected you’d manage.” Nina stared at her cooling pie, her dearest family transformed into office managers conducting a performance review. Two years flashed through her mind—dragging sledges through snow, sitting vigil through fevers, scrubbing their floors, skipping new coats to buy quality LEGO for the boys. She thought all of this was for love, for family. But now she realized they saw her as unpaid outsourced labour, failing to meet targets. Silence thickened. Children’s TV murmured from down the hall. “So, a list of complaints?” Nina asked, voice unexpectedly steely. “Oh Mum, it’s not a list of complaints, just points for growth,” Marina grimaced. “We just want a system.” “I see,” Nina stood. “Oleg, email me the file. I want a detailed look.” “Yes, certainly—” Oleg brightened, thinking she’d play along. “Now listen to me,” Nina drew herself up. Decades as head accountant taught her to stay composed through audits. “You’re asking for a teacher, nutritionist, chef and cleaner, all in one. With skills in English, Montessori methods and military discipline. That’s fine—just one thing missing.” “What’s that?” Marina tensed. “A work contract and payment,” Nina said calmly. “Since you love a spreadsheet! In London these days, a nanny-governess earns £15–£20 an hour. I’m here 12 hours a day, 5 days a week. That’s at least £900 a week, nearly £3,600 a month—minimum, not counting overtime or meals I prep.” Oleg tried a nervous laugh, “Mrs Goodwin, come on—you’re family! You’re Grandma.” “Grandma,” said Nina, “means Sunday baking, treats, and stories when I feel like it. Someone who’s sent a list of targets and gets scolded for falling short is an employee—and employees are paid. Slavery ended in 1833.” Marina shot upright: “Mum! How can you put a price on this? We thought you helped because you love the boys!” “I love them more than anything,” Nina’s eyes glistened, but she was firm. “That’s why I ran myself ragged these two years. But today, you made it clear—I’m not helping, I’m offering substandard services. And in that case—with regret—I resign.” “What?” both gasped. “You heard me. From tomorrow, find a professional who ticks your boxes—one who cooks broccoli, teaches Mandarin in their sleep, and runs bedtime by stopwatch. I’m returning to being Grandma. I’ll visit on Sundays. With gingerbread.” She grabbed her bag. “Eat the pie, it’s nice. Goodbye.” Nina stepped out to stunned silence, hearing only Marina’s muffled cry: “What do we do now?!” She didn’t so much ride the bus home as float. It was scary, but also an enormous relief, like dropping a bag of bricks. That night, for the first time in two years, she made herself herbal tea, put on a classic film, and switched her phone off. The next week was a flood of calls. First guilt, then pleas. Nina was serene: “My doctor’s ordered rest, Marina. No, I’m busy tomorrow. Hair appointment. Theatre on Thursday. You’ll cope—systematic people that you are.” She actually did go to the theatre with a friend, bought herself a new dress, started sleeping soundly again. Life glowed with colours she’d forgotten. News from the “front” came in snippets. At first the children took time off. Soon after, the agency sent them a nanny. A month later, as promised, Nina visited. The house was chaos; shoes everywhere, dirty dishes piled up. The boys leapt on her, nearly knocking her over. “Gran! It’s Gran!” From the kitchen emerged a stern-faced woman. “Theo, Paul! No hugging! Go straight to the lounge for activities!” “Hello, I’m Grandma,” Nina said. “Gail, the nanny,” the woman muttered. “Don’t spoil them, we’re on schedule.” The boys followed, as if to the gallows. Marina emerged—exhausted, shadow-eyed. “Tea, Mum?” she muttered. “Gail, would you make some?” “Not part of my job,” the nanny snapped. “I was hired for the children, not the house. Make your own. And you still owe me overtime—fifteen minutes last Wednesday.” Marina gritted her teeth and reached for the kettle. It was hopeless. Nina saw the strain on her daughter, Oleg’s twitching eyelid as he worked even on weekends. The nanny never let the boys smile, barking at the smallest lapse. “Nice lady?” Nina whispered when the nanny left the room. “Agency sent her,” Marina sighed. “’VIP staff’, three languages, references from CEOs.” “Expensive?” “Eighty grand a year plus food,” Oleg muttered, “She eats for England—demands farm produce.” “At least she’s professional,” Nina couldn’t resist. Marina burst into tears. Quiet, hopeless tears. “Mum, this is hell. She drills the boys like soldiers. Paul’s wetting the bed again. Theo begs to see you. No screens allowed, not even learning games. She’s always on her phone while they silently do puzzles. We’re terrified to fire her—she’s our third in a month. We’ve maxed out the credit card.” Nina saw her daughter’s pain and felt her heart soften—but she knew: if she gave in, it would all repeat. Next week, another list, more dismissal of her efforts. “Don’t cry,” she handed over a tissue. “Experience is costly, but valuable.” “Mum, come back? Please?” Oleg pleaded. “We were idiots. No more Excel at Grandma. We took you for granted. Can you forgive us? Please.” Marina nodded, sniffling: “No more lists, no more criticism. Give them gingerbread, anything—just come back! We’ll pay you more than the nanny!” Nina sipped her tea. From the playroom, the nanny’s parade-ground voice could be heard. “No payment,” she said. “I’m not an employee. Family and money don’t mix. But I’m nobody’s house-slave, either.” She handed over a paper with her terms—already prepared. “My conditions: I mind the boys three days a week only—Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, nine to six. Evenings and weekends are mine. Mondays and Fridays—sort yourselves out or get a temp.” “Deal!” Oleg agreed at once. “Second, no instructions about how I handle my own grandchildren. I raised you, Marina—and you turned out all right. If I think a biscuit will make them happy, they have a biscuit. If they need Winnie-the-Pooh on TV, that’s what we’ll watch. Otherwise, call the agency.” “We like it, Mum, it’s perfect!” Marina wept. “And finally, respect. One complaint about ‘professionalism’, one sour look over unwashed pans, and I’m gone again. I help with the kids, not the whole house. That’s your job.” “Of course, Mum. We’ll hire a cleaner. Anything.” “We’ve agreed then,” Nina smiled. “Now go and sack that woman. My heart breaks listening to her rant at Paul.” When Gail, spluttering and demanding her severance (which Oleg meekly paid), finally left, the flat filled with peace. “Gran! Is the scary lady gone?” Paul ran and flung himself at Nina. “She’s gone, love, for good.” “Can we bake cakes again?” asked Theo, full of hope. “Yes, on Tuesdays. And now Grandma will read a story and then go home. Grandma has her day off, too.” That evening, Oleg called her a “Comfort Plus” taxi. Marina packed delicacies meant for the nanny. They farewelled her like she was off on an adventure. In the plush car, Nina gazed at the city night. It wouldn’t always be easy—old habits and chores would try to creep back. But she knew her worth now—and, just as crucially, so did her children. Sometimes, to be valued, you just have to step back and let people see the difference. Love is vital, but healthy boundaries make it stronger. Leave the spreadsheets to the office—Gran has her own time-honoured ways, built on love, not on tick-boxes. Thank you for reading this story. Please like and subscribe—your support means the world.

I remember it well, though many years have passeda time when I cared for my grandchildren without a penny of compensation, only to be handed a thorough list of grievances over my parenting.

Honestly, Mum! Youve given them those shop-bought ginger biscuits again, Rebeccas voice rang through the kitchen, bristling with indignation, as if Id committed the crime of the century, not simply given the boys a treat with their tea. We agreedONLY gluten-free oatcakes from that bakery in High Street! Its all sugar and e-numbers in those! Do you want another rash or for them to be bouncing off the walls before bed?

I exhaled, gathering crumbs from the table into my palm. Rebecca didnt know that the gluten-free oatcakescosting as much as a train ticket to Brightonhad been roundly rejected as like cardboard, while the ginger biscuits from Waitrose vanished so quickly I barely kept count. But I said nothing. Lately, Id learned the value of silence, lest I fan the smouldering embers of an argument.

Rebecca was my only child. She stood in the kitchen in a sharp suit, glancing at her watch as she prepared to dash off to a meeting that clearly ranked behind her latest lecture on healthy nutrition.

They were peckish after their walk, I said, rinsing teacups under the tap. They picked at the stew and refused the greens. They needed something for energy.

Energy, Mum, comes from complex carbohydrates, not sugar! she snapped, slinging her handbag over her shoulder. Right. I must dash. William will be home at eight. Please make sure they finish their speech therapy exercises, and absolutely NO electronicsIll check the browser history later.

She slammed the door, leaving behind not only her expensive perfume but the thick, heavy tension wed grown accustomed to. I sank into a chair, my back sore and legs tired. I was sixty-two. Two years before, prompted by my daughter and son-in-law, Id left my post as head of accounts at a decent little firm so I could devote myself to my grandsonsEdward and Charlie.

Why keep working, Mum? William had reasoned at the time. Rebecca and I are both building careers, budgeting for the mortgage. We need your help at home, but even more, we need someone we trust. Good nannies are so expensive these days, and wed rather family than a stranger. Think how much simpler for everyone.

At the time it seemed sensible, even appealing. I adored my grandsons; truth be told, the ledger work was becoming a grind. I pictured cheerful walks to the park, reading fairy tales, afternoons making playdough animals. Reality was rather different.

My day now began at seven. I travelled halfway across London from my little flat on the council estate to the childrens newly-finished semi, to be there before the boys woke. Rebecca and William both left early, and returned late. All the daily running about for clubs, check-ups, enrichment activitiesthe logistics fell to me. Edward was a loud, boisterous five-year-old, Charlie a testy three-year-old in the throes of I can do it myself.

That evening unfolded like most. I helped the boys build a fortress out of blocks, explaining to Edward the difference between s and sh as per the speech therapist, refereed the dinner battlebroccoli lost to sausages, which I quietly boiled for them when they refused anything else. Then bath, stories, and bed. When the key finally turned and William appeared, I was so spent I could barely see straight.

William, tall and slightly overweight, wearing the usual furrow of worry, came into the kitchen, nodded at me, and disappeared into the fridge.

Rebecca not back yet? he asked, sandwich already half-assembled.

Shes at a late meeting, I replied, packing up. Ill make a move or Ill miss the last bus, and I cant afford a taxi this week with fares what they are.

Of course, of course, he murmured, nose in his phone. Thanks, Mrs. Bennett. Make sure the doors tightthe locks sticky.

On the bus home, lights darted past the window as I mulled over the evening. Even the thank you had come across mechanical, as if I were a washing machine finishing its cycle. No one asked how I was doing, or if my blood pressurewhich had been volatile for days with the weatherneeded looking after.

Tensions reached a head that weekend. On most Saturdays and Sundays, I tried to rest and tend to my own affairs. But Friday night, Rebecca called.

Mum, sorry, but can you come round on Sunday? William and I need a proper family meeting. Lunch time, if you canwe need to talk.

A chill ran through me at her tone. Was something wrong? A debt? Health? I baked a cheese and onion pieWilliam’s favouriteand headed over. The atmosphere was formal, even chilly. The boys were dispatched to their room for cartoons (normally tv was strictly rationed) while the grown-ups gathered round the living room table.

William had his laptop open, Rebecca clutched a notepad. My pie sat awkwardly at the tables edge, strangely out of place next to their gadgets and stern faces.

Mum, weve reviewed the last six months, Rebecca began, looking everywhere but at me. And we think its important to systemise the boys upbringing. There are things were simply not happy with.

Not happy? I echoed, my hands icy. What do you mean?

Weve made a list. William turned the laptop toward me. Up flashed a colour-coded Excel chart. Nothing personal, Mrs. Bennett. Just feedbackways to improve.

I squinted. Graphs, bullet points, highlighted boxes. Rebecca began ticking them off, referencing her notes and the screen.

First: Nutrition. You routinely disregard the boys’ dietary needs. Ginger biscuits, sausages, your pies. Its too much refined carbohydrate. Please stick strictly to my weekly menu on the fridge. No deviations.

But they wont eat turkey mince balls, Rebecca! I protested. Theyre little. They need to enjoy what they eat.

Eating habits are formed in childhood, William interrupted, tone scholarly. Second: Bedtime routine. Last week, Charlie went down at 9:30pm, not 9:00. Missing half an hour disrupts melatonin productionunacceptable.

I bit my lip. That evening, Charlie had a tummy ache. I sat stroking his back, singing a lullaby til he slept.

Third: Learning. Edward is still mixing up his colours in English. Are you using the flashcards I bought? Our developmental plan is specifiche needs cognitive stimulation, not just toy cars.

Rebecca, hes five! Children need childhood, not Oxford entrance coaching. We count conkers in the park

Counting conkers? Really, Mum? That’s old hat. And disciplineyoure too soft. The boys walk all over you. We need firmer boundaries, punishments when needed, no pudding, even time-outs. You just coddle them. This isnt professional.

That word stung most of all.

And finally, William concluded, weve drawn up KPIskey performance indicators. Each week we’ll check progress. If theres no improvement, well have to hire a tutor, and thats extra expense, something we thought youd help us avoid.

I gazed at my cooling pie, at the faces of my own family turned iron-fisted managers, ready to dismiss a failing employee. I recalled two years of lugging prams through snowy streets, sitting up all night with a feverish Edward while Rebecca dashed across the country for work, of mopping their floors, scrimping on my own coat for the boys sake.

All along Id believed I was doing it out of love, for family. Evidently, I was just unpaid help performing below expectations.

Silence dragged on, broken only by the childrens cartoon in the next room.

So, my list of faults? I asked quietly. My voice, far from shaky, was unexpectedly firm.

Oh Mum, its not faults, just areas to grow Rebecca protested.

I understand, I said, standing. William, please email me your spreadsheet. I want to review it properly.

Of course! Great, he replied, mistaking compliance for agreement.

Now, heres my own feedback, I straightened up, drawing on all my years of keeping calm in audits. If you want a professionalgoverness, nutritionist, chef and cleaner rolled into onefluent in English, Montessori trained, a strict disciplinarianyoull need to add one thing.

Whats that? Rebecca bristled.

An employment contract and a wage, I replied calmly. This is England. We dont have unpaid labour anymore. A private nanny in London earns around £10-£12 an hour by my reckoning. Im with you from eight to eight, five days a week: 60 hours. Thats at least £600 per week, £2,400 a month, not counting late nights, or all that cooking and cleaning.

William spluttered a half-laugh. Mrs. Bennett, dont be silly. Youre their grandmother! Not a paid worker.

Grandmother, William, is who comes by on weekends, bakes pies, spoils her grandchildren, and tells stories when she feels like it. But someone handed an itinerary of tasks, KPIs, and told off for underperformingthats a staff member. And staff get paid. Slaverys been illegal here since 1833.

Rebecca leapt up. Mum! Must you make it all about money? Were family! We thought you helped because you love them!

I love them more than my own life, I said, tears pricking but refusing to drop. Which is precisely why Ive wrecked my health these two years, dragging prams and enduring your criticisms. I endured, because I believed I was helping. But today, youve made it clear Im just undervalued help. SoIm resigning.

What? both cried at once.

Thats right. As of tomorrow, find a professional. Someone wholl feed them broccoli, practice Mandarin in their sleep, and put them to bed by the second hand. Ill go back to being a grandmother. Ill visit on Sundays. With ginger biscuits.

I took my bag, adjusted my scarf.

Eat the pie, its good for you. Goodbye.

I stepped out into the quiet. When the door shut behind me, I heard my daughters shout, muffled: What are we supposed to do now!?

I didnt walkI floated home. Afraid, but oddly light, as if some invisible boulder had slipped from my shoulders. That evening, for the first time in two years, I did not prepare tomorrows dinner for a family of five. I made myself a pot of herbal tea, put on an old film, and switched off my phone.

The week that followed was a barrage of phone calls. Rebecca called, first injured, then apologetic. William, too, trying guilt. I stood my ground.

My blood pressure, Rebecca. Doctor says rest, I lied, lying comfortably on the sofa, reading a book I hadnt touched in ages. No, Im busy. I have my hair appointment. And theatre with a friend. Youll manageafter all, youre so systematic.

And I did go to the theatre, bought myself a new dress, slept soundly for once. The world took on colours Id forgotten, sparkling through the haze of exhaustion and obligation.

Snippets of news reached me. First, the children had to take turns with annual leave. Then, apparently, they found a nanny.

A month later, on a Sunday, I returned as promised. The house was in an uproarshoes scattered in the hall, dishes stacked high. The boys hurled themselves at me, shouting me down with laughter.

Gran! Grans here! Edward wrapped arms round my neck; Charlie clung to my leg.

A woman emerged from the kitchenlarge, fearsome, with an air of schoolmistress.

Edward! Charlie! Off! Now! she barked, and I felt a pang seeing them deflate instantly.

Hello, Im their grandmother, I offered.

Mrs. Morris, the nanny, she retorted. No fussingtheyre on structured play. Back to it, boys.

The boys trudged away, faces fallen. Rebecca appeared, haggard and sapped.

Hello, Mum. No pride in her voice. Tea?

Mrs. Morris, would you mind making tea? Rebecca tried.

Not my remit, she sniffed, glued to her phone. Im engaged for childcare only, not domestic tasks. Make it yourself. And, by the way, last week I did fifteen minutes overtime on Wednesdayyouve not added it to my pay.

Rebecca forced a smile and filled the kettle herself, jaw clenched.

Conversation failed. I watched as my daughter wilted, William staring at his laptop even on his day off, the nanny scowling over every minor giggle.

Nice woman? I whispered when the nanny left the room.

Agency sent her, Rebecca sighed. London Elite Staff. Speaks three languages, references from diplomats. £2,000 a month plus food, and she eats as if for a regiment. Insists on organic everything.

Well, you wanted a professional, I couldnt help myself.

Rebecca lowered her head and suddenly began to cry, mascara smudging as she wiped at her eyes.

Mum. This is hell. She drills them like soldiers. Charlies wetting himself at night. Edward keeps begging for you. No cartoons at allapparently theyre bad for eyesight. Shes always on her phone. And dismissing her is a nightmareweve burned through two other nannies already. Moneys pouring outwere dipping into the credit card.

I saw my daughter crumbling, my heart thawing. But I knew that if I gave in straight away, nothing would changenew lists, new disappointment, would be arriving within the week.

Dont cry, I handed her a tissue. All experience costs, but youve learnt something.

Mum, will you come back? William begged, looking utterly lost. We were idiots. Who makes performance charts about a grandma? We were justcomplacent. Forgive us.

Rebecca nodded, eyes red. No more lists, Mum. No more rules. Feed them whatever you want. I dont care if its ginger biscuits or shoe polish, as long as theyre happy. Bedtimes up to you. And well pay you! More than we ever paid the nanny!

I sipped my tea, letting the silence settle. In the next room, Mrs. Morris was scolding Charlie for dropping a block.

No need to pay me, I said slowly. Im not your employee; Im their grandmother. Money spoils family bonds. But I wont work myself into the ground again.

I took out a piece of paperyes, Id come prepared.

Here are my conditions. Ill do three days a week. Tuesday to Thursday, nine until six. Evenings and weekends are mine. Mondays and Fridays, I’ve got my own thingsgarden, medical appointments. For those days, hire someone else or sort it yourselves.

Agreed! William said eagerly.

Second: I decide how to be with my grandchildren. I raised you, Rebeccaand you turned out all right. If a ginger biscuit is what happiness needs, its what theyll get. If a round of Winnie-the-Pooh is in order, so be it. If not, wellyou know where to find Mrs. Morris.

Thats perfect, Mum, Rebecca beamed through her tears.

And finally, respect. If I so much as hear the word unprofessional or see a face because I didnt wash the dishes, Ill leave. Im helping with the boys, not keeping house. The rest is your business.

No problem, Mum. Well even get a cleaner. Weve learned our lesson.

Good. Now, go dismiss your sergeant. My nerves are in bits after hearing her shout at Charlie.

Mrs. Morris left, rumbling about compensation (William paid her gladly just to see the back of her). At last, peace.

Gran! Charlie barrelled out, cuddling me with relief. Is that lady really gone? She was mean.

She is, sweetheart. Shes not coming back.

Will you make pies with us again? Edward asked, hope shining in his eyes.

Of course. But only on Tuesdays. Today, Grans reading you a story and then heading home for her own tea.

Later, William called me a taxiexecutive class, no less. Rebecca packed me off with organic delicacies left by the nanny. Our goodbyes were long, honest, and lovingthe kind fitting a proper family.

In the plush seat home, gazing out into the London night, I felt the future wouldnt be easy. The children would try it on; the chores would keep coming. But I was armoured now. I knew my worth, andmost importantlyso did they.

Sometimes, you must simply step away, let them see the difference. Love is a marvellous thing, but boundaries make it that much stronger. Leave the spreadsheets for the office. Grandmothers have their own methodstried, true, and filled with lovefar beyond anything an Excel sheet could measure.