When my daughter called and asked if I could stay with her for a week, I didn’t hesitate for a second. She was preparing for important exams and needed help looking after her two-year-old son. All my friends thought I’d lost the plot—Lorraine, they’d say, why would you agree to that? Say yes once, and you’ll never get away. But how could I refuse? She’s my daughter. That’s my grandson.
I arrived at their modest two-bedroom flat in a quiet part of Manchester with just one suitcase and every intention of being useful. But it didn’t take long to realise I wasn’t just there as Grandma—I was the housemaid, the cook, the laundress, and, as the cherry on top, the unpaid full-time babysitter.
My son-in-law worked around the clock, and my daughter sat glued to her laptop from dawn till dusk, studying. The entire household fell on my shoulders: cooking, cleaning, laundry, and washing up by hand because, incidentally, the dishwasher was broken.
Fine, I thought. I’d manage. It was only a week. Just one. Single. Week.
But that week stretched into two, then three. Before I knew it, a whole month had slipped by. My daughter passed her exams, then immediately started sending out CVs. She was job hunting. I didn’t leave—how could I? My grandson was still little; they needed me.
No one asked me to stay. But no one told me to go, either. It just happened—I saw they needed me, so I stayed. Yet with each passing day, I caught more and more disapproving looks. First, because the soup wasn’t to their taste. Then because I’d hung my son-in-law’s clothes in the wrong place. Before long, I was simply “in the way.”
In their home, I became something of a ghost—helping, doing everything, yet feeling like an outsider. Not once did they say, “Mum, thank you.” Not once did they say straight out, “Mum, it’s time you went home.” No. Just sideways glances and heavy sighs. And here I was, hoping they’d see how much I was doing for them and maybe say one word of gratitude. Or just hug me. Or at least offer me proper tea, not the cheap bagged stuff.
I never imagined my love and help would turn into this kind of invisible imprisonment.
Back home in my cosy one-bed flat in Camden, everything’s mine—my knitting, my old books, the violets on the windowsill. It’s clean, it’s quiet, it’s restful. But I’m here instead. Every morning, I’m up at six to make breakfast, feed my grandson, dress him, take him out. By midday, it’s lunch, laundry, mopping floors. Evenings are for dinner, and nights? Nights are spent lying on the little bed in the nursery, wondering—will it always be like this?
But I’m a mother. I’m a grandmother. And I won’t walk away. I’ll wait. Wait for the day my daughter says, “Mum, we’re so grateful for everything.” Or even just, “Mum, you must be exhausted—take a break.” Maybe my son-in-law will smile and say, “We couldn’t have done it without you.”
For now—silence.
Perhaps they just haven’t realised yet. Maybe it takes the young longer to understand the weight of a mother’s sacrifice. And yes, sometimes it feels like they see me as a given—a resource, not a person.
But I keep hoping. I keep believing my love, my patience, my care isn’t in vain. That it won’t be forgotten. I don’t want my kindness to be a burden they carry with guilt. I want it to be their strength, their example. So when my daughter grows old, she’ll understand—it’s not just about taking, but appreciating.
If they’re not ready yet, I’ll wait. I’m a mother. And like all mothers, my heart holds an endless supply of faith—even when it hurts.
