I Told You to Stop After Your Third Child – I Even Bought You Special Pills Hoping You’d Reconsider, But It Seems My Efforts Were Useless: When My Sarcastic Mother-in-Law Learned About My Fourth Pregnancy, She Threatened to Withdraw Her Support – How Do You Deal With a Mother Who Inserts Herself Into Her Children’s Lives This Way?

Author Emily TaylorReading 3 minViews 1

I warned you to stop after your third child. I even went as far as buying you special tablets, hoping youd rethink what you were doing. But apparently, all my efforts were wasted.

How many more children are you planning to have? my mother-in-law, Margaret, asked mockingly, her voice sharp.

Could we maybe leave the sarcasm out of this? Sarah replied quietly. Are you this upset just because Andrew told you I was expecting?

Of course I am! snapped Margaret, her frustration barely contained. I told you to stop after the third! I bought you those special tablets, hoping youd consider your choices more carefully. But it seems Ive wasted my time, she sighed, throwing her hands in the air.

We understand your concerns, but we dont want to go against what feels right for us, Sarah answered, her tone measured.

Are you having a laugh? Well, you can forget any help from me from now on! Margaret declared, her cheeks flushed with anger.

Sarah was about to say something more when, suddenly, the shrill ring of the telephone cut through the room.

Never once had Margaret been the doting grandmother. She didnt take her grandchildren out, rarely spent time with them, and only bothered with presents and sweets on their birthdays. Financially, Sarah and Andrew were totally self-sufficient. When Sarah became pregnant for the third time, Margaret had pressed her to have an abortion, but the couple had refused, and, oddly enough, Margaret eventually became smitten with her granddaughter. Then Sarah fell pregnant again. She tried her best not to let the fraught relationship spill over in front of Andrew, so long as their family stayed content.

Andrew had a well-paid job, while Sarah worked part-time from home. When her small business began to grow, she even hired an assistant to help with the children. By all accounts, things might have been perfect, if not for Margarets never-ending disapproval. Margaret took an instant dislike to her daughter-in-law and had desperately hoped Andrew would end his marriage to Sarah. Those hopes, of course, came to nothing. Then the children arrived, one after the other.

Sarah believed Margaret couldnt accept the arrival of a fourth grandchild because it meant all of Andrews money would now go towards sustaining his growing family, not indulging his mothers needs. Margaret had lived in comfort, thanks to Andrew paying her dental bills, treating her to spa weekends, and even refurbishing her house. Faced with the prospect of losing such financial security, Margaret felt everything slipping away. She bristled at the idea that she would soon have to tighten her belt.

Despite Margarets ceaseless negativity, Sarah tried to put it out of her mind. Still, the strain was beginning to show. Deep down, it was clear that Margaret no longer held any sway over their decisions. The fourth child was cominglike it or not.

How, indeed, do you cope with a mother who insists on prying into her childrens lives in such a way?

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.