Manchester was wrapped in a dreary autumn haze, but my heart churned with resentment and disappointment. How could I stay calm when my mother-in-law, as if a stranger, turned away from her own grandchildren? I couldn’t fathom how someone could be so cold and indifferent to their own flesh and blood. Yet Margaret Elizabeth repeats the same refrain: *Your children, your responsibility. I did my duty raising my son.*
Margaret retired early. Her youngest daughter, Eleanor, had just given birth to twins. For the first three years, Margaret helped, fussing over the babies, but the moment they started nursery, she found herself a side job—of all things, a nanny for a wealthy family, spending her days doting on someone else’s children.
Now, she’s home only on weekends, and those days are for cleaning, meeting friends, and resting. Yes, she earns a decent wage, but for her own grandsons—my boys, four-year-old Oliver and two-year-old Henry—she has no time. Not a minute. Not an ounce of warmth.
My husband and I pleaded with her for help. I needed to return to work to support us, but the boys were often ill, missing nursery. My own mother lives in another city, miles away, so Margaret was our only hope. Yet she refused without hesitation.
*Hire a nanny,* she said coldly. *Don’t distract me from my job.*
I was stunned. If my mother lived nearby, she’d drop everything to help. She promised to visit for a fortnight during her leave, but what good is two weeks? It won’t fix anything. While Margaret jets off to exotic resorts with those other children, sails on yachts, and poses on beaches, I’m stuck at home, torn between sick boys and the fear of losing my job. I know she’s struck gold, but how can she be so heartless? Are pounds really worth more than her own family?
Every time I see her social media posts—grinning with those polished, well-dressed children at expensive theme parks—my chest tightens. My boys have never had her at their school plays or heard her read bedtime stories. They ask, *Mum, why doesn’t Granny Margaret visit?* What do I say? That she prefers strangers’ children because they pay her?
I tried talking to my husband, Thomas, but he just shrugs. *Mum’s always been like this,* he says. *You won’t change her.* But how do I accept that? I feel betrayed, as if she’s turned her back not just on the boys but on us, too. Her indifference is like a blade, slicing slowly at what’s left.
Sometimes I wonder—am I asking too much? Then I remember my own mother, exhausted yet always making time for me and my siblings. Isn’t that what a grandmother should be? Love, warmth, care? Margaret has only calculation and selfishness.
Would you call this normal? Putting money above family? What would you do in my place?
*Lesson learned: Blood doesn’t always mean loyalty. Some hearts are sealed by choice, not duty.*
