I’ve decided to stop visiting my kids on weekends.
I’m seventy-two, and what I see in my own family breaks my heart. So I’ve made a tough but firm choice: no more weekend trips to see my grandson, Oliver. Enough is enough—I’m tired of feeling like an unwanted guest in their home. If they want to see me, they can come to me. I won’t humiliate myself by begging for time together when it only seems to matter to me. My heart aches, but I can’t go on like this—it’s time to respect myself, even if it means being alone.
For years, I lived for my family. I raised my son, James, gave him everything I could. When he married Emily, I was thrilled—she seemed lovely, clever, good with her hands. And when Oliver was born, my only grandchild, it felt like a new chapter. Every weekend, I’d take the bus across town to see him, bringing treats, baking his favourite apple tarts, playing games, reading stories. Oliver’s six now—full of life, full of questions—and I thought these visits mattered to all of us. But slowly, I noticed a change.
It started a couple of years back. James and Emily became distant. I’d arrive, and they’d be busy—on their phones, glued to their laptops. “Mum, keep an eye on Oliver, we’ve got things to do,” James would say, and I’d be left with my grandson while they sorted their “urgent” business. Emily wouldn’t even offer me tea—just, “Margaret, your tarts are in the kitchen if you want one.” *My* tarts? The ones I baked for *them*? Now they’re handing them back like I’m some stranger? I bit my tongue, not wanting to stir trouble, but each little cut stung.
The final straw came last month. I turned up on Saturday, as usual, with a bag of goodies. Oliver rushed to hug me, but Emily gave me a look and said, “Margaret, you should really call ahead. We’ve got plans today—James and I are off to the shopping centre.” *Plans?* And I’m not part of them? I offered to take Oliver so they could go alone, but James just waved me off. “Don’t worry, Mum, stay with him, we’ll be quick.” Quick? They were gone five hours. I kept Oliver entertained, made him lunch because the fridge was nearly empty. When they returned, not a word of thanks—just Emily muttering, “Oh, you’re still here? We thought you’d left.”
I went home, but I couldn’t settle. I sat in my old armchair, staring at a photo of Oliver and me building a snowman, and cried. Why do I feel so disposable? I’ve spent my life being a good mother, a good grandmother, and now I’m treated like free childcare. I remembered how close James and I used to be—how he’d call me, sharing his dreams. Now he doesn’t even ask how I am. Emily isn’t cruel, just cold, and that indifference cuts deeper. I realised—this can’t go on.
The next day, I called James. “I won’t be coming round on weekends anymore,” I told him. “If you want to see me, or for Oliver to spend time with me, you can visit *me*. I’m tired of being an uninvited guest.” He sounded baffled. “Mum, what’s got into you? You’re always welcome here—Oliver adores you.” Adores me? And do *you*, James? I didn’t argue. “My door’s open,” I said, “but I’m done making the trip.” When Emily found out, she just sniffed. “Suit yourself, Margaret.” That was it. No effort to understand.
Now I spend weekends at home, and the silence weighs on me. I miss Oliver’s laughter, his endless questions, the way he’d tug my sleeve—”Granny, read to me!” But I won’t beg for scraps of their attention. I’m not young anymore—my heart’s dodgy, my knees ache—and they never once considered how hard it is for me to haul myself across town with bags of food. My neighbour, Doris, approved: “Good for you, Margaret. Let them put in some effort for once.” But her words didn’t help. I miss my grandson. I miss my son. I even miss Emily, frosty as she is.
Two weeks have passed, and no one’s come. James rang once, asked if I’d changed my mind. “You know where I live,” I said. He mumbled something about being busy and hung up. Oliver, apparently, keeps asking why Granny doesn’t visit, and Emily tells him, “Granny’s resting.” Resting? I haven’t slept properly since, worrying about my boy! But I won’t back down. I deserve respect, not to be treated like an on-call babysitter. If they want to be a family, they’ll have to show it.
Sometimes I wonder—was I too harsh? Should I have put up with it, for Oliver’s sake? But then I remember their indifference, and my resolve hardens. I won’t be the grandmother they only remember when they need help. I want to be part of their lives, not the hired help. My door’s open. The kettle’s on. There’s always a tart in the oven. But *they* have to make the next move. I’ll wait—however long it takes. Or maybe I won’t. Maybe it’s time to learn how to live for myself, even if it hurts like hell.
