Long ago, when my daughter Eleanor gave birth to her son, my heart swelled with pride. Yet that joy soon turned to uneaseher position at the firm demanded long hours, and she couldnt take her full maternity leave.
I couldnt bear the thought of the little one left alone, so I offered my help without hesitation. Each morning at eight, Id arrive at her home in Cheltenham and stay till evening, tending to the baby. I bathed him, fed him, rocked him to sleep. The ironing board became my constant companion, and our daily walks through the park a cherished ritual.
All was well until one day, everything changed.
Weary after a long stroll, I fancied a bite to eat. I opened the fridge, took a bit of cheddar and an apple. Then came Eleanors icy voice:
“Dont you dare touch the food. All of this was bought with our money.”
I stood frozen.
“But Im here all day, every day Am I to go hungry?”
“Bring your own meals. This isnt a charity,” she snapped before retreating to her study.
In that moment, I realised Id raised a woman who saw kindness as obligation. So I resolved to teach her a lesson shed never forget.
Clutching that apple, it struck mewhere had I gone wrong? Id given her every ounce of love, every sacrifice, and in return? Cold indifference.
The next morning, I didnt come. At eight, I rang her instead.
“Darling, youll need to find another minder. I shant return. Im too old to feel a stranger in a house that once knew warmth.”
She was furious. Shouted, blamedbut I held firm. No more would I be treated as some convenient solution.
I love my grandson with all my heart. But Ill not play the unpaid housekeeper.
I am a mother. A grandmother. And I deserve respect.
