When I married Anthony, I thought everything would fall into place. We were young, in love, full of plans. He was a student at a technical university, and I was in my final year at a teaching college. Both from the countryside, both dreaming of staying in London where we studied. After the wedding, we took out a mortgage on a one-bedroom flat in a suburban area. It felt like the start of proper adult life. Everything would come if we worked hard.
But within a year, everything went sideways. I got pregnant and lost my part-time job. My student grant and small earnings weren’t enough anymore. Anthony worked, but his salary barely covered groceries. The mortgage payment drained us every month. So we decided: we’d rent out the flat and move in with his mum. A temporary solution, we told ourselves. Just for a couple of years, until we got back on our feet.
Anthony’s mother, Margaret, had already retired—officially, though she’d only just turned fifty. A lively, well-kept woman, always wearing makeup and new blouses. From the start of our marriage, she never meddled, didn’t call every five minutes, didn’t lecture us on “how things should be done.” At first, I thought I’d won the lottery. Calm, sensible, refined. What more could I ask for?
When we told her about moving in, she sighed but let us stay. Not thrilled, but resigned. We took the small spare room, set up a cot. I kept hoping that once the baby came, she’d help. At least in the beginning—just hold him for an hour so I could sleep, or watch him while I showered. But in the hospital, when Anthony brought her the first photos of our son, she said something I’d never forget:
“Remember this: I raised my son. Now I’ve earned my retirement. I’m a grandmother, not a free babysitter.”
I was speechless. That night, I cried, clutching my baby to my chest. This was her grandson. Her own blood. And she looked at him like a stranger. Cold. Distant.
But we had no choice. We stayed. I scraped together odd jobs—writing articles, proofreading exams, translating texts. The money barely covered nappies and food. Meanwhile, Margaret lived her own life. Mornings at the gym, evenings at the theatre with friends. Blared the telly when the baby was napping. Ask for help? “Not my responsibility.”
My own mum, back in Sheffield, was baffled:
“I wouldn’t leave his side! He’s a joy! How can anyone be so heartless?”
But what good did that do? My parents were far away, working. They couldn’t help. And we were drowning.
When our son was older, we put him in nursery. I took a steady job—low pay, but reliable. I dreamed of breaking free, paying off the mortgage, getting our own place again. But then our son started falling ill. Fevers, coughs, stomach bugs. I was constantly taking sick days. My boss started side-eyeing me; colleagues whispered. Once, he said outright:
“We need an employee, not a single mum. Either you stop missing work, or find another job.”
Gritting my teeth, I went to Margaret. Hoping:
“Margaret, could you watch him for a couple of days while I’m at the office?”
She set down her coffee cup and said flatly:
“An hour or two, fine. But all day? No. That’s proper babysitting. I’ve done my time. I want to rest now.”
That was it. Not a shred of sympathy. I left the kitchen with a lump in my throat so thick I could hardly breathe.
Anthony and I made a choice: we hired a private childminder. Expensive, but cheaper than losing my job. All the while, Margaret lived right there, walking past her grandson like he was part of the furniture.
The irony? With a healthy, living grandmother nearby, we paid a stranger to do what she could’ve done—out of love, out of kindness, out of basic decency. But Margaret lived by one rule: “My life is mine alone. Your kids are your problem.”
Yes, technically, she didn’t owe us anything. But how do you explain that to a six-month-old reaching for her, only for her to turn away?
Now our son’s three. We’ve clawed our way back. Better wages, moved back into our flat. Still battling the mortgage, but we’re on our own. Margaret calls sometimes, asks how he’s doing. But she never offers to visit, never asks to see him on his birthday. Just a “grandmother on paper.”
And the cruelest part? He doesn’t remember her. At all. And if one day he asks, “Do I have a grandma?”—I won’t know what to say.
So tell me—should a grandmother help? Or does she have every right to live for herself? Where’s the line between having your own life and showing a bit of warmth?
