Manchester lay shrouded in a dreary autumn mist, but the storm in my heart raged far fiercer than the weather outside. How could any woman stay composed when her own mother-in-law, with icy detachment, turned away from her own flesh and blood? I couldn’t fathom how someone could be so callous, so indifferent to their own family. Yet Lydia Margaret Wilkins repeated the same refrain: “Your children, your responsibility. I’ve done my part by raising my son.”
Lydia had retired early. Her youngest daughter, Emily, had just given birth to twins. For the first three years, Lydia doted on them—rocking them to sleep, wiping their tears—but the moment they started nursery, she found herself a new occupation. Not just any job, mind you. She became a nanny for a wealthy family, spending her days fussing over someone else’s children.
Now, she’s home only on weekends, and those precious hours are reserved for cleaning, coffee with her girlfriends, and what she calls “rest.” True, she’s bringing in a hefty wage—but not a shred of that time is spared for my boys. Four-year-old Oliver and two-year-old Henry might as well be strangers to her. Not a second of warmth. Not a single bedtime story.
My husband and I begged her for help. I needed to return to work to keep us afloat, but the boys were constantly ill, missing nursery. My own mother lived hundreds of miles away in Bristol, leaving Lydia as our only hope. Yet she dismissed us without hesitation.
“Hire a nanny,” she said coolly. “Don’t bother me with your problems.”
I was stunned. If my mother were here, she’d drop everything in a heartbeat. She promised to visit for a fortnight during her leave, but what good was that? It wouldn’t fix anything. While Lydia jets off to luxury resorts with other people’s children, posing for photos on yachts and sandy beaches, I’m trapped at home, torn between sick toddlers and the gnawing fear of losing my job. I get it—she’s struck gold with this position—but how can money matter more than her own grandchildren?
Every time I see her social media posts—grinning with those polished, well-dressed strangers’ kids at theme parks or high-end attractions—my chest tightens. My boys have never had her at their school plays, never heard her voice lulling them to sleep. They ask, “Mum, why doesn’t Grandma Lydia ever come?” What do I tell them? That she prefers other children because they pad her bank account?
I’ve tried talking to my husband, Thomas. He just shrugs. “Mum’s always been like this,” he says. “You won’t change her.” But how do I accept that? It feels like betrayal—as if Lydia’s rejection isn’t just of the boys, but of us too. Her indifference is a blade, twisting slowly.
Sometimes I wonder—am I asking too much? Then I remember my own mother, exhausted yet never too tired for me or my brothers. Isn’t that what makes a grandmother? Love, warmth, presence? Lydia offers none of it. Just cold arithmetic and selfishness.
Tell me—is it normal for a grandmother to value money over her own family? What would you do in my place?
