“It’s not my job to babysit or clean up after you”: I told my daughter I wasn’t obligated to look after my granddaughter—I have my own life too.
It all started with the brightest moment—the birth of my granddaughter. Like any loving mother and grandmother, I threw myself into helping: sleepless nights, pushing the pram, ironing tiny babygros, cooking purees, running baths. I thought it was my duty, my way of supporting my daughter and her family, offering the warmth I once craved when I was drowning in the exhausting whirlwind of early motherhood.
But slowly, my help became expected. My daughter and son-in-law treated me like free labour. First, it was just “Mum, can you watch Lucy for a couple of hours?” Then an evening, then whole weekends. It became routine: “Mum, stay with Lucy—we’ve got a class,” “Mum, you’re at home, can you pick her up from nursery?” “Mum, we’re off to the gym—cover for us, yeah?”
And I did. Because what else could I do? You can’t leave a child alone. But then I realised my “temporary help” had become a permanent obligation. They stopped factoring me into their plans. Their schedules came first—I was just meant to adjust.
The final straw came last week. My daughter called to say they had a work do but Lucy couldn’t go to nursery because she had a slight cough. Her husband, mind you, was off fishing with his mates, and she couldn’t skip the party—work was involved. I said nothing, packed my things, and collected my granddaughter. Because at the end of the day, I love her. But inside, I was seething.
Then today, the breaking point. My daughter rang, thrilled, to say she and Thomas were flying to Spain. For two weeks. I congratulated her, then asked—”Are you taking Lucy with you?” Her reply knocked the wind out of me.
“No, obviously. You’ll look after her. We’ve already booked the flights—all-inclusive.”
That was it. No question, no discussion. Just an assumption. They didn’t even check if I was free, if I had plans. Because apparently, retirees don’t have lives or desires. Just grandchildren and a kitchen.
I took a breath and spoke, calm but firm.
“Emily, I’m not your nanny. I’m not your maid. You’re adults with a child—that’s your responsibility. If you want a holiday alone, either take Lucy or find someone else. I’ve got plans—my friend Margery and I booked a spa retreat a month ago.”
Silence. Then the meltdown. She screamed that I was selfish, a terrible grandmother, that “all normal grandmas live for their grandchildren,” and all I cared about was myself. “What else are you going to do,” she snapped, “sit in front of the telly?”
I’m done justifying myself. I helped out of love, not duty. But when love turns into being used—boundaries have to be set.
Yes, I’m retired. That doesn’t mean my life’s over. I have plans, wants, exhaustion, my own health to think about. Why didn’t anyone ask if I wanted to spend two weeks alone with a child, no breaks, no rest? Why should I sacrifice myself for someone else’s holiday?
I love my granddaughter. But I won’t let my love be an excuse to exploit me anymore. If that means a row with my daughter—so be it. Real family means respect, not entitlement.
I said no—for the first time in years. And I felt the weight lift. Because I’m not a nanny. Not a servant. I’m a mother. And I’m a woman who still has a right to her own life.
