In a sleepy little town in the West Country, where life ambles along and family ties seem unbreakable, my reality has become a nightmare. I, Eleanor, a mother of three toddlers born close in age, am teetering on the edge of despair. My mother-in-law and my own mother, both in their fifties, have decided their personal desires outweigh my daily struggle to keep afloat. They’ve left for a fortnight-long yoga retreat in the Lake District, abandoning me with the children, and the wound cuts deep.
I have three little ones: Benjamin is four, Charlotte is three, and the youngest, Oliver, is only eighteen months old. My husband, James, works dawn till dusk to provide for us. I don’t blame him—he’s doing everything he can. But I’m alone with three children who demand attention every waking second. Benjamin bombards me with endless questions, Charlotte is perpetually moody, and Oliver cries the moment he’s not in my arms. My days are an unending loop of laundry, cooking, tidying, and trying not to lose my mind. I barely sleep more than four hours a night, and my strength is nearly gone.
When I was pregnant with Oliver, my mother-in-law, Margaret, and my mum, Patricia, both swore they’d help. They promised to take the older two for walks, to babysit the little one so I could catch my breath. I clung to those words like a lifeline. But after Oliver was born, everything changed. Margaret announced she had “her own life” and refused to be “tied down” by grandchildren. Mum started complaining about how exhausted she was and how she longed to “live for herself.” Their words felt like betrayal, yet I still held out hope.
Then came the final blow. As if conspiring, they both declared they were off to a two-week yoga retreat in the Lakes. “We need to reset,” Mum said breezily. “You understand, Ellie—we deserve a break too.” Margaret chimed in: “You’re young, you’ll manage. I raised my kids without any help.” I was stunned. They knew how hard it was for me—they’d seen the dark circles under my eyes, heard my pleas for support. Yet their “wellness journey” mattered more than my tears.
I begged them to reconsider. “How am I supposed to handle three children alone?” I pleaded. “Oliver’s unwell, Benjamin won’t listen, I don’t even have time to eat!” Mum just waved me off. “You’re overdramatising—every mother goes through this.” Margaret was colder: “Stop being dramatic, Ellie. We’ll be back in a fortnight—it’s not the end of the world.” Their indifference sliced through me like a knife. I felt abandoned, as though my children and I were mere obstacles to their newfound freedom.
James, when I told him, just shrugged. “What can I do? It’s their choice,” he muttered. His words crushed me. I was left alone to battle the chaos. The first day without them was hell: Oliver fussed nonstop, Charlotte spilled juice all over the sofa, and Benjamin threw a tantrum because he wanted to go outside. I shouted at them, then sobbed with guilt. My life had become an endless nightmare, and no one lifted a finger to help.
I called Mum, hoping she’d come to her senses. But she answered the phone cheerfully: “Ellie, the retreat is glorious! Just hang in there—it’ll be fine.” Margaret didn’t even pick up. Their apathy was suffocating. I remembered their promises to always be there, their vows to adore their grandchildren. Now they’re meditating by some tranquil lake while I drown in nappies and exhaustion.
My neighbour, Emily, noticed my frayed nerves and popped over to check on me. Taking in the mess and my red-rimmed eyes, she pulled me into a hug. “Ellie, you’re not alone,” she said softly. “Let me watch the kids for a few hours so you can rest.” Her kindness was the only light in these dark days. A stranger showed more care than my own flesh and blood.
A week has passed, and I’m barely holding on. Oliver is still poorly, I’m running on fumes, and the children sense my desperation, growing even more restless. I don’t know how I’ll survive another seven days. Mum and Margaret haven’t called or texted—it’s like they’ve forgotten we exist. Their selfishness is breaking my heart. I’d give anything for them to return and take the children off my hands, just once. But they’ve chosen themselves, their serene retreats, their precious yoga, leaving me to sink.
I can’t forgive them. They knew how much I needed them and chose comfort over kindness. My children—their grandchildren—are nothing but burdens to them. The hardest lesson is realising the people you trust most can walk away when you need them. I don’t know how I’ll face them when they return, if they even do. My love for them is fading, but the pain grows. Still, for Benjamin, Charlotte, and Oliver, I have to keep going—even if the whole world, including my own family, has turned its back.
