I left my sons house tonight, just walked right out, even though the roast beef was still piping hot on the table and my apron was tossed in a heap on the kitchen floor. I didnt stop being a grandmaI just stopped letting everyone act like I was invisible.
Im Martha. Im sixty-eight, and for the last three years, Ive quietly kept my son Simons home running. No pay. No thanks. Not a break in sight. You know how people always bang on about it takes a village? Well, apparently the elders in this village are meant to put up and shut up, or so it seems these days.
When I was younger, grazed knees were just part of growing up, and you came in when the streetlights came on. When I was raising Simon, tea was always at six on the dot. You ate what was put in front of you or you went to bed hungry; that was that. We didnt have feelings workshopswe just taught responsibility, didnt we? It wasnt perfect, but it turned out kids who could handle a bit of disappointment, knew graft, and stood on their own two feet.
My daughter-in-law, Charlotte, isnt a bad soul. She adores their son, Alfie, bless him. But shes frightenedfrightened of E-numbers, of parenting wrong, of crushing lads uniqueness, and the judgemental types on social media.
Because of all this, my eight-year-old grandson is running rings around everyone.
Alfies a bright lad, genuinely lovely when he fancies it, but hes never met a no that didnt turn into a debate.
It was Tuesdaymy epic day. I got there before the sun had even thought about rising, got Alfie ready for school since Simon and Charlotte were both off to high-flying jobs, earning enough to barely be at home. Washed a mountain of laundry, took the dog for a trot, sorted the larderthats got posh organic snacks sat next to the basics I pick up with my state pension.
All I wanted was for tonight to feel homely. I spent the afternoon roasting beef with root vegpotatoes, carrots, a sprig of rosemarythe kind of tea that makes a house smell like love and all those old Sunday dinners.
Simon and Charlotte came in late, eyes on their mobiles, jabbering about work targets. Alfie was splayed across the sofa, buried in his tablet, watching someone yelping about Minecraft or whatever.
Teas ready, I said, putting the roast down with a flourish.
Simon sat without so much as a glance. Charlotte frowned.
Were trying to have less red meat, she muttered. And did you use organic carrots? Alfies got sensitivities, remember.
Its a proper tea, I said. Real food.
Simon called for Alfie. Annoyed answer came from the living room.
No, Im playingdont bother me!
Back in my day, that screen wouldve gone off, sharpish. Tonight? Nothing.
Charlotte went to gently persuade him. I could hear her in therenegotiating, offering bribes, validating his feelings.
He finally rolled into the kitchen, tablet still in hand, wrinkled his nose at the food, and shoved his plate away.
That looks horrible, he said. I want fish fingers.
Simon sat like a statue. Charlotte was halfway to the freezer before I could blink.
Thats when it wasnt anger I felt, but heartbreak.
Sit down, I said firmly.
She froze.
Hell eat whats here or he can politely leave the table, I said, level as anything.
Simon finally looked up. Mum, leave itwere too knackered for battles. Hell get upset.
Upset? I said. You think not getting fish fingers is trauma? Youre teaching him the world must dance to his every whim, that nobodys efforts matter.
We do gentle parenting, Charlotte shot back, chilly.
Its not parenting; its giving in, I said. Youre so afraid of him being upset hes running the show. Im not family in this house; Im just the help.
Alfie screeched and flung his fork. Charlotte swooped over to comfort him.
Nannys just dealing with big feelings, she cooed.
Thats when Id had enough.
I took off my apron, folded it neatly, and set it next to the untouched roast.
Youre right, I am dealing with something. Im dealing with seeing my son fade into the background of his own home. Im dealing with watching a child grow up with no boundaries. And Im dealing with feeling like a hired hand.
I picked up my bag.
Youre leaving? Simon asked, sounding lost. But you said youd watch him tomorrow.
No, I said.
You cant just go.
I can, and I am.
I walked out into the quiet, leafy cul-de-sac.
But we need you, Charlotte called, desperate. Family sticks together.
A real village thrives on respect, I said back. This isnt a villageits a service hatch. And Im shutting up shop.
I drove until I reached the park. Just sat there in the car with the windows down, the smell of wet grass and summer rain drifting in.
All of a sudden, I spotted themtiny golden lights dancing over the grass.
Glow-worms.
When Simon was little, wed chase after them together. Watch them light up the dark, set them free. We showed him not everything beautiful needs controlling.
So I sat, watching the glow-worms.
My phones been buzzing like madapologies, guilt trips, all sorts.
Im not answering.
People have muddled up giving everything to their kids with actually giving themselves. We swap a real presence for phones and tablets, and proper boundaries for whatevers easiest. All because were scared of not being liked. And in the mess of it all, were not raising children who can stand on their own.
I love my grandson enough to let him struggle a bit.
I love my son enough to let him learn.
And for the first time in years, I love myself enough to go home, have a peaceful meal, and let the glow-worms shine on.
The Village is closed for maintenance.
When its back open, respect will be the entry fee.
