I’ve stopped visiting the kids on weekends.
I’m an elderly woman, seventy-two years old, and what I see in my family breaks my heart. So I’ve made a tough but firm decision—no more weekend trips to see my grandson, Max. I’m done feeling like an unwanted guest in their home. If they want to see me, they can come to me. I won’t humiliate myself anymore, begging for visits that only seem to matter to me. It tears me apart, but I have to respect myself, even if it means being alone.
I spent my whole life putting my family first. Raised my son, James, gave him everything I could. When he married Sophie, I was thrilled—she seemed kind, smart, good with her hands. And when little Max was born, my only grandchild, I felt alive again. Every weekend, I’d take the train halfway across the city just to spend time with him. I’d bring treats, bake his favourite apple tarts, play games, read him stories. Max is six now, full of energy and curiosity, and I thought these visits meant something to all of us. But over time, I noticed things changing.
It started a couple of years ago. James and Sophie became distant. I’d show up, and they’d be busy—on their phones, staring at screens. *”Mum, mind Max for a bit, we’ve got things to sort,”* James would say, leaving me with my grandson while they handled their *”important”* matters. Sophie wouldn’t even offer me tea, just, *”Margaret, your tarts are in the kitchen if you want one.”* *My* tarts? The ones I brought for *them*? Now I was being treated like some stranger? I bit my tongue to avoid arguments, but every little thing stung.
The last straw was last month. I arrived on Saturday with a bag full of treats. Max ran up to hug me, but Sophie gave me a look and said, *”Margaret, you should really call ahead. We’ve got plans today—James and I are heading to the shopping centre.”* Plans? And I wasn’t part of them? I offered to take Max so they could go, but James just waved me off. *”It’s fine, Mum, just stay with him—we won’t be long.”* *Long?* They were gone five hours. The whole time, I kept Max entertained, made him lunch because the fridge was nearly empty. When they finally came back, not even a thank you—just Sophie muttering, *”Oh, you’re still here? Thought you’d have left by now.”*
I went home that evening and couldn’t settle. Sat in my old armchair, staring at a photo of Max and me building a snowman, and cried. Why did I feel so worthless? I’d spent my life trying to be a good mother, a good grandmother, and now I was just free childcare. I remembered how close James and I used to be—how he’d call me, tell me his dreams. Now? He doesn’t even ask how I am. Sophie isn’t cruel, but her coldness cuts deep. And I realised—I can’t keep doing this.
The next day, I called James and said, *”I’m not coming over on weekends anymore. If you want to see me—or want Max to—you come here. I’m tired of being an afterthought.”* He sounded confused. *”Mum, what’s wrong? You know Max loves it when you visit.”* *Loves it?* Do *you*, James? I didn’t argue. Just repeated, *”My door’s open. But I won’t be making the trip anymore.”* When Sophie heard, she just scoffed. *”Fine, then.”* Not a word more. No effort to understand.
Now, weekends are quiet, and the silence weighs on me. I miss Max’s laughter, his endless questions, the way he’d tug my sleeve: *”Granny, read to me!”* But I won’t keep forcing myself where I’m not wanted. I’m not young—my heart’s not what it was, my knees ache—and they don’t even think about how hard it is for me to drag bags across town. My neighbour, Mrs. Thompson, said, *”You did the right thing, Margaret. Let *them* put in the effort for once.”* But her words don’t help. I miss Max. I miss James. I even miss Sophie, ice-cold as she is.
Two weeks have passed, and no one’s come. James called once, asked if I’d changed my mind. I said, *”You know where I live.”* He mumbled something about being busy and hung up. I hear Max has been asking why Granny doesn’t visit, and Sophie just tells him, *”Granny’s resting.”* *Resting?* I can’t sleep, worrying about my boy! But I won’t back down. I deserve respect, not to be treated like hired help. If they want to be a family, they’ll have to show it.
Sometimes I wonder—was I too harsh? Should I have endured it, for Max’s sake? But then I remember their indifference, and my resolve returns. I won’t be that grandmother they remember only when they need a favour. I want to be part of their lives, not the help. My door’s open. The kettle’s on. The tarts are in the oven. But they’ll have to take the first step. And I’ll wait—however long it takes. Or maybe I won’t. Maybe it’s time I learn to live for myself, even if it hurts like hell.
