In Manchester, autumn cloaked the city in misty grey, but my heart churned with resentment. How could my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, turn away from her own flesh and blood? Her indifference was a blade twisting deeper each day. “Your children are your responsibility,” she’d say coolly. “I raised my son—my duty’s done.”
Margaret retired early. When her youngest daughter, Eleanor, had twins, she doted on them for three years—until they started nursery. Then, without pause, she took a job as a nanny for a wealthy family, fussing over strangers’ children while ours went ignored.
Now she’s home only on weekends, dusting her shelves or lunching with friends. She earns a fortune, but for our boys—Oliver, four, and Henry, two—she spares no time. Not a crumb of warmth.
We begged for help. I needed to work, but the boys were always ill, missing nursery. My own mum lives miles away in Brighton, leaving Margaret as our only hope. Her reply? “Hire a nanny. Don’t interrupt my work.”
I was stunned. My mother would’ve moved mountains to help. She’ll visit for a fortnight next summer, but what good is that? Meanwhile, Margaret jets off to Portugal with her charges, grinning in yacht photos while I ration sick days like pennies. She’s struck gold—but must gold outweigh her own grandsons?
Every social media post of her laughing in theme parks with those polished children feels like a slap. My boys ask, “Mum, why doesn’t Granny Margaret come?” What do I say? That other children pay better?
My husband, James, just shrugs. “Mum’s always been this way.” But must I accept it? Her apathy is a slow poison, as if she’s renounced not just the boys but us, too.
Sometimes I wonder if I expect too much. Then I recall my mum, exhausted yet never too tired for us. Isn’t that what grandmothers do? Love without tally? Margaret trades in ledgers, not hugs.
Tell me—is it right to value wealth over family? What would you do?
