In Manchester, autumn draped the city in a misty grey shroud, yet inside my chest raged a storm of hurt and bewilderment. How could anyone stay composed when their mother-in-law, like a stranger, turned her back on her own grandchildren? I couldn’t grasp how someone could be so icy and indifferent to their own flesh and blood. Yet Margaret Evelyn simply repeated, “Your children, your responsibility. I’ve done my duty raising my son.”
She retired early. Her younger daughter, Gemma, had just given birth to twins. For the first three years, Margaret doted on them, but the moment the boys started nursery, she found herself a side hustle—a lucrative one. She became a nanny for a wealthy family, spending her days fussing over someone else’s children.
Now she’s only home on weekends, which she devotes to tidying, tea with friends, and rest. Yes, she earns a pretty penny, but for her own grandsons—my four-year-old Oliver and two-year-old Henry—she hasn’t a minute. Not a shred of warmth.
My husband, Thomas, and I begged her more than once. I needed to return to work to help make ends meet, but the boys kept falling ill, missing nursery. My own mother lived miles away in Cornwall, and Margaret was our only hope. She refused without hesitation.
“Hire a nanny,” she said coolly. “Don’t interrupt my work.”
I was stunned. If my mother lived nearby, she’d drop everything to help. She promised to visit during her holiday, but what good were two weeks? They wouldn’t fix anything. While Margaret jets off to resorts with those other children, sails on yachts, and poses for photos on sun-bleached beaches, I’m trapped at home, torn between sick toddlers and the fear of losing my job. I get it—she’s struck gold—but how can someone be so heartless? Are pounds truly worth more than your own family?
Every time I see her social media posts—those beaming, well-dressed children at theme parks—my chest tightens. My boys have never had their grandmother at their school plays, never heard bedtime stories from her. They ask, “Mum, why doesn’t Granny Margaret come see us?” What do I say? That she prefers someone else’s kids because they line her pockets?
I’ve tried talking to Thomas, but he just shrugs. “Mum’s always been like this,” he says. “You won’t budge her.” But how do I swallow this? I feel betrayed, as if she’s turned away not just from the boys, but from us. Her apathy cuts like a blade, slow and slicing.
Sometimes I wonder—am I asking too much? Then I remember how my own mum, exhausted as she was, always made time for me and my siblings. Isn’t that what makes a grandmother? Love, care, warmth? But Margaret—there’s only arithmetic and self-interest.
So tell me—is it normal for a mother-in-law to put money before family? What would you do in my place?
