**Diary Entry**
I’m not made of steel. It hurts deeply when I think of my son and grandson, but I refuse to bend to my daughter-in-law’s demands any longer.
*— I still don’t understand why this woman had a child if all she cared about after the birth was her career and her reflection in the mirror,* says Olivia Dawson, a 62-year-old woman from York, her voice heavy with bitterness.
Her son, James, is sharp, ambitious—at 35, he holds a senior position at a respected tech firm. But his wife, Beatrice, is another matter. She’s nine years older than James and has built a relentless career in the corporate world. Children were never part of her plan—she feared losing her position, being left behind by someone younger and hungrier for success.
They lived what most would call a glamorous life: a penthouse in London, a country house in the Cotswolds, luxury cars, European holidays. But warmth was scarce in that home. They saw each other less frequently than they did their business partners. And though Olivia never interfered, it pained her to watch her son exhaust himself trying to be the perfect husband while hitting an unyielding wall.
When Beatrice, at forty, suddenly announced she was pregnant, the entire family was stunned. Even James didn’t know whether to celebrate or brace for impact. His mother, who had long given up hope of grandchildren, wept with joy—but soon, that joy turned to unease.
*— She barely left the office even in her third trimester. Gave birth practically during a board meeting. Even in the hospital, her phone never left her hand,* Olivia recalls. *I half expected her to go straight back to the office.*
For the first few weeks after the birth, Beatrice seemed changed—hormones, no doubt. She hovered over the baby, sleepless, terrified of missing a single breath. She barred everyone from the house—even Olivia. Insisted on doing everything herself. But it didn’t last.
The moment she stopped breastfeeding, the question of returning to work became urgent. Beatrice claimed the company was falling apart, her deputy was bungling projects, and if she didn’t return immediately, all would be lost. Finding a nanny proved difficult—Beatrice trusted no one—so she offered Olivia money to look after the baby. Olivia agreed, hoping it would bring them closer.
*— At first, it was perfect. I cared for the little one during the week, the parents took over on weekends. I was overjoyed—finally, time with my grandson,* Olivia says.
Then things shifted. Beatrice dismissed the housekeeper and began asking Olivia not just to mind the child, but to cook and clean as well. She still paid, but the workload became unbearable—a newborn demands constant attention.
*— One day, I was cleaning the fridge while the baby napped in the playpen. The master bedroom was upstairs—too far to run if he woke. I wanted to work quickly and not disturb him,* Olivia explains.
But when Beatrice came home and saw her son in the playpen, she exploded:
*— Why isn’t he in his cot? Why hasn’t he been taken out for fresh air? What am I paying you for? I expect him well-rested, fed, and tended to at all times!*
The next day, the housekeeper was reinstalled—along with strict surveillance. Cameras in every room, daily reports. Even the slightest graze earned a reprimand. Olivia no longer felt like a grandmother—she felt like a servant under a microscope.
*— I was even afraid to use the loo,* she admits tearfully. *I always felt watched. And James took Beatrice’s side—said, ‘Mum, just be patient, you’re being paid for this.’ But it wasn’t about the money—it was my heart breaking!*
After another argument—Beatrice calling her *”useless and lazy”*—Olivia snapped.
*— That’s it. I quit. I’m not your servant. Hire a qualified nanny if you want, but I’m done with your wars.* She walked out.
Since then, Beatrice has barred her from the house. She refuses to let her see her grandson. And James? James stays silent. Sends the odd curt message once a month but stands firmly by his wife.
*— I’m not a machine! It hurts, it stings. I lived for my family, for my grandson…* Olivia whispers. *But I won’t bend any longer. This isn’t what I raised my son for. Let them live as they please—though I hear their nannies never last a week. Seems no one has the patience for their ‘perfect rules.’*
Had Beatrice ever simply said, *”I’m sorry,”* things might have been different. But the bridge is burnt now.
**Lesson learned:** Love shouldn’t come with terms and conditions. And no amount of money is worth losing your dignity.
