**Sunday, 15 October**
I won’t be visiting the children on weekends anymore.
I’m an old woman now, seventy-two, and what I see in my family breaks my heart. So I’ve made a difficult but firm decision: no more trips to see them just to spend time with my grandson, Charlie. I’ve had enough of feeling like an unwanted guest in their home. If they want to see me, they can come to me. I refuse to humiliate myself by begging for meetings that only seem to matter to me. My heart aches, but I won’t go back—I must respect myself, even if it means being alone.
For years, I lived for my family. I raised my son, James, gave him everything I could. When he married Emily, I was pleased—she seemed kind, clever, good with her hands. And when Charlie was born, my only grandchild, I felt alive again. Every weekend, I’d take the bus halfway across town just to see him. I’d bring treats, bake his favourite apple tarts, read him stories. Charlie’s six now, bright and full of questions, and I always thought these visits mattered to all of us. But over time, I began to notice a change.
It started a couple of years ago. James and Emily became distant. I’d arrive, and they’d be preoccupied—always on their phones or laptops. “Mum, keep an eye on Charlie, we’ve got things to do,” James would say, leaving me with the boy while they attended to their “important” matters. Emily wouldn’t even offer me tea, just a curt, “Margaret, the tarts you brought are in the kitchen—help yourself if you like.” *My* tarts? The ones I baked and carried over for them? Now they treat them like some charity handout? I bit my tongue, not wanting to argue, but each slight cut deep.
The final straw was last month. I arrived on Saturday as usual, my bag full of treats. Charlie ran to hug me, but Emily just looked at me and said, “Margaret, you should call ahead. We’ve got plans—James and I are going to the shopping centre.” Plans? And I’m not part of them? I offered to take Charlie with me so they could go alone, but James waved me off. “Don’t be silly, Mum, just stay with him—we won’t be long.” *Long?* They were gone five hours. I kept Charlie entertained, made him lunch because the fridge was nearly empty. When they finally returned, not even a thank you—just Emily muttering, “Oh, you’re still here? We thought you’d left.”
I went home, restless, unable to settle. I sat in my old armchair, staring at a photo of Charlie and me building a snowman, and cried. Why do I feel so disposable? I’ve spent my life trying to be a good mother, a good grandmother, and now I’m just treated like free childcare. I remembered how close James and I used to be—how he’d call just to tell me about his day. Now he doesn’t even ask how I am. Emily isn’t cruel, but her indifference is worse. And I realised: I can’t go on like this.
The next day, I phoned James. “I won’t be coming on weekends anymore. If you want to see me—if Charlie wants to see me—you’ll have to visit me. I’m tired of being an afterthought.” He sounded confused. “Mum, what’s got into you? Of course we want you here—Charlie adores you.” Adores me? And do *you*? I didn’t argue, just repeated, “My door’s open, but I won’t be making the trip.” When Emily found out, she just scoffed. “Suit yourself, Margaret.” That was it. No apology, no effort to understand.
Now weekends are quiet, and the silence weighs on me. I miss Charlie’s laughter, his endless questions, the way he’d tug my sleeve: “Granny, read to me!” But I won’t force myself where I’m not wanted. I’m not young anymore—my heart isn’t strong, my knees ache—yet they never stop to think how hard it is for me to trek across town with bags of groceries. My neighbour, Mrs. Wilkins, said I did the right thing. “They’ve taken you for granted long enough.” But her words don’t comfort me. I miss Charlie. I miss James. I even miss Emily, cold as she is.
Two weeks have passed, and no one’s come. James rang once, asking if I’d changed my mind. I told him, “You know where I live.” He mumbled something about being busy and hung up. Charlie’s been asking why Granny doesn’t visit, and Emily tells him, “Granny’s resting.” *Resting?* I lie awake worrying about that boy! But I won’t back down. I deserve respect, not to be treated like an on-call babysitter. If they want to be a family, they must show it.
Sometimes I wonder—was I too harsh? Should I have endured it, for Charlie’s sake? But then I remember their indifference, and my resolve hardens. I won’t be the grandmother they call only when they need help. I want to be part of their lives, not just the hired help. My door’s open, the kettle’s on, fresh tarts in the oven. But now, they must make the effort. And I’ll wait—however long it takes. Or perhaps I won’t. Maybe it’s time I learn to live for myself, even if it hurts.
