**Diary Entry – 12th June**
I drove our son to my wife’s parents today, so they could spend time with their grandson. Yet somehow, my mother-in-law still believes she’s doing *us* the favour.
Emily stood by the window of their flat in Manchester, watching as Paul secured the car seat. Their four-year-old, Oliver, chattered excitedly about the trip to his grandparents. Every weekend, they made the journey so Mum and Dad could dote on him. But by the time they got home, Emily was always simmering with frustration. Her mother, Margaret, genuinely believed babysitting Oliver was some grand act of charity, as if she were martyring herself for their sake. The thought made Emily’s blood boil, and it took everything in her not to snap.
It started two years ago when Oliver was old enough to stay overnight. Emily and Paul thought it was perfect—giving her parents a chance to bond with him. Margaret and her husband, George, adored Oliver. They spoiled him with scones, took him to the park, read him bedtime stories. Emily loved seeing his face light up, just as she had visiting her own nan as a child. She wanted him to have those same warm memories. But she never expected her kindness to be twisted into some imagined debt.
Every time they picked Oliver up, Margaret would sigh dramatically, as if she’d spent the weekend hauling bricks. “There you go, your little break is over,” she’d say, wiping imaginary sweat from her brow. Or, “He’s a handful, but I manage—you two need your time alone, don’t you?” Emily clenched her fists, jaw tight. She wanted to scream, “We didn’t *dump* him on you! We brought him here for *you*!” Instead, she forced a tight-lipped, “Thanks, Mum.” Even Paul, usually unflappable, muttered in the car later, “Does she think we’re off clubbing while she’s on babysitting duty? This was *for them*.”
It wasn’t that they didn’t cherish time with Oliver. They loved building Lego castles and walking along the Thames. But they’d *seen* how Margaret’s eyes lit up when Oliver ran to her, shouting, “Nana!” They wanted to give her that joy—to let Oliver feel the love of a bigger family. Yet with every visit, Margaret’s martyred sighs grated worse. “Exhausted, but no matter—I do it for you,” she’d say, as if they’d palmed him off to jet off to Spain. Emily felt guilty, though she couldn’t fathom why.
The breaking point came last Sunday. When they arrived, Margaret sighed, “Back to chasing him round, then. But I suppose you’ve got *important* things to do.” Emily’s restraint snapped. “Mum,” she said, voice trembling, “we bring Oliver here because we want *you* to know him. Because *he* should know you. This isn’t a favour to us—it’s for *you*.” The room went silent. Margaret blinked, stunned, while George coughed and buried himself in the newspaper. Paul squeezed Emily’s hand—*Well done*, that touch said.
That evening, when they collected Oliver, Margaret was quieter. No sighs, no theatrics—just a soft hug and a murmur of, “Come again soon.” Relief washed over Emily, though guilt prickled too. Had she been too harsh? But as Paul started the car, he grinned. “She’ll learn. We’re not offloading him—we’re sharing him.” In the backseat, Oliver hummed a nursery rhyme, and Emily thought: for his smile, she’d set the record straight a thousand times.
They still take Oliver to his grandparents, but cautiously. Emily hopes Margaret finally understands—they’re not after a babysitter. They want their son surrounded by love. But the next time Margaret implies it’s a *service*? Emily won’t hesitate to remind her. Family isn’t transactional. And if it takes a few blunt truths to drive that home—so be it. For Oliver’s sake. For the truth.
**Lesson learned:** Some people mistake generosity for obligation. Sometimes, you have to spell it out—even to family.
