I’ve stopped visiting my children on weekends.
I’m an elderly woman, seventy-two years old, and what I see in my family breaks my heart. That’s why I’ve made a difficult but firm decision: no more weekend trips to see my son and daughter-in-law, or to play with my grandson, Oliver. I’m tired of feeling like an unwanted guest in their home. If they want to see me, they can come to me. I won’t humiliate myself by begging for meetings that only seem to matter to me. My heart aches, but I can’t go on like this—it’s time to respect myself, even if it means being alone.
For years, I lived for my family. I raised my son, Edward, gave him everything I could. When he married Emily, I was happy—she seemed kind, clever, and capable. And when Oliver was born, my only grandchild, I felt alive again. Every weekend, I’d take the bus across town just to spend time with him. I’d bring treats, bake his favourite apple tarts, play games, and read stories. Oliver is six now, full of energy and curiosity, and I thought these visits meant something to all of us. But over time, I noticed things changing.
It started a couple of years ago. Edward and Emily became distant. I’d arrive, and they’d be busy—on their phones or computers. “Mum, mind Oliver, we’ve got things to do,” Edward would say, and I’d be left with my grandson while they tended to their “urgent” matters. Emily wouldn’t even offer me a cup of tea—just a flat, “Margaret, the tarts are in the kitchen if you want one.” *My* tarts? The ones I’d baked for them? Now they were treating me like a stranger? I bit my tongue, not wanting arguments, but every slight cut deep.
The final straw was last month. I arrived on Saturday as usual, arms full of treats. Oliver ran to hug me, but Emily barely looked up. “Margaret, you should’ve called ahead. Edward and I are going to the shopping centre today.” Plans? And I wasn’t part of them? I offered to take Oliver so they could go alone, but Edward waved me off. “It’s fine, Mum, just stay with him—we won’t be long.” Long? They were gone five hours. I kept Oliver entertained, made him lunch because there was barely any food in the fridge. When they returned, not a word of thanks—just Emily muttering, “Oh, you’re still here? We thought you’d left.”
I went home, but the ache wouldn’t leave. I sat in my old armchair, staring at a photo of Oliver and me building a snowman, and cried. Why do I feel so unwanted? I’ve tried so hard to be a good mother, a good grandmother, yet they treat me like free childcare. I remember when Edward and I were close—when he’d call just to share his dreams. Now? He doesn’t even ask how I am. Emily isn’t cruel, but her coldness stings. And I knew—I couldn’t go on like this.
The next day, I called Edward. “I won’t be visiting on weekends anymore. If you and Oliver want to see me, you know where I live.” He was confused. “Mum, what’s wrong? Oliver adores you.” Adores me? And what about *you*, Edward? I didn’t argue. “My door is open, but I won’t be coming to you.” Emily just shrugged when she heard. “Suit yourself, Margaret.” That was it. No effort to understand.
Now my weekends are silent. I miss Oliver’s laughter, his endless questions, the way he’d tug my sleeve—”Grandma, read to me!” But I won’t force myself where I’m not valued. I’m not young anymore—my heart isn’t strong, my knees ache—yet they never think how hard it is for me to travel with bags in tow. My neighbour, Mrs. Thompson, said, “You did the right thing, Margaret. Let *them* make the effort.” But her words don’t comfort me. I miss my grandson, my son, even Emily—though she’s as warm as a January morning.
Two weeks have passed, and no one’s come. Edward rang once, asking if I’d changed my mind. “You know my address,” I replied. He muttered something about being busy and hung up. I’ve heard Oliver asks why I don’t visit, and Emily tells him, “Grandma’s resting.” Resting? I lie awake worrying about my boy! But I won’t back down. I deserve respect, not being treated like an on-call babysitter. If they want me in their lives, they’ll have to show it.
Sometimes I wonder—was I too harsh? Should I have endured it for Oliver’s sake? But then I remember their indifference, and my resolve hardens. I won’t be the grandmother they remember only when they need help. I want to be part of their lives, not just the help. My home is open. The kettle’s on, the tarts are baking. But now, *they* must take the first step. And I’ll wait—however long it takes. Or perhaps I won’t. Maybe it’s time to learn to live for myself, even if it hurts.
