I’ve stopped visiting the kids on weekends.
I’m an elderly woman, seventy-two years old, and what I see in my family fills me with pain and sorrow. So I’ve made a difficult but firm decision: no more weekend trips to visit my son, James, and play with my grandson, Oliver. Enough. I’m tired of 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 by begging for meetings that clearly only matter to me. My heart aches, but I can’t go on like this—it’s time to respect myself, even if it means being alone.
For years, I lived for my family. I raised James, gave him everything I could. When he married Emily, I was happy—she seemed kind, intelligent, capable. And when Oliver, my only grandson, was born, I felt alive again. Every weekend, I’d take the bus halfway across town to spend time with him. I’d bring treats, bake his favorite apple tarts, play games, read stories. Oliver’s six now—full of energy, full of curiosity—and I thought these visits mattered to all of us. But over time, I began to notice a change.
It started a couple of years ago. James and Emily became distant. I’d arrive, and they’d be preoccupied—on their phones, glued to their laptops. “Mum, mind Oliver for a bit, we’ve got things to sort,” James would say, and I’d stay with my grandson while they handled their “urgent” matters. Emily wouldn’t even offer me tea, just a curt, “Agnes, the tarts are in the kitchen if you want them.” *My* tarts? The ones I baked *for them*? Now they were tossing them at me like charity? I stayed quiet, avoiding fights, but each moment like that cut deep.
The final straw was last month. I came on Saturday as usual, my bag full of treats. Oliver ran to hug me, but Emily just looked at me and said, “Agnes, you should’ve let us know you were coming. We’ve got plans—James and I are heading to the shopping centre.” Plans? And I wasn’t part of them? I suggested taking Oliver out myself so they could go, but James brushed me off. “It’s fine, Mum, just stay with him—we’ll be quick.” Quick? They were gone five hours. I kept Oliver entertained, made him lunch because the fridge was empty. When they returned, not even a thank you. Just Emily muttering, “Oh, you’re still here? We thought you’d have left by now.”
I went home but couldn’t settle. I sat in my old armchair, staring at a photo of Oliver and me building a snowman, and wept. Why do I feel so unwanted? I’ve spent my life trying to be a good mother, a good grandmother—now I’m just treated like free childcare. I remember how close James and I used to be, how he’d call me, share his dreams. Now he doesn’t even ask how I am, how my health is. Emily isn’t cruel, but her frostiness chills me. And I realized—I can’t do this anymore.
The next day, I called James. “I won’t be coming on weekends anymore. If you want to see me—if you want Oliver to see me—you’ll have to come to me. I’m tired of being a guest who isn’t welcome.” He stammered, “Mum, what’s got into you? You know we don’t mind—Oliver loves it when you visit.” *Oliver* loves it? But do *you*, James? I didn’t argue. Just repeated, “My door’s open, but I won’t be making the trip.” When Emily heard, she just scoffed. “Suit yourself, Agnes.” That was it. No understanding. No warmth.
Now I spend my weekends at home, and the silence weighs on me. I miss Oliver’s laughter, his questions, the way he’d tug my hand and beg, “Grandma, read to me!” But I won’t force myself where I’m not valued. I’m not young anymore—my heart’s unsteady, my knees ache—and they never once considered how hard it is for me to haul myself across town with bags of groceries. My neighbor, Margaret, said, “Agnes, you did the right thing. Let them make the effort for once.” But her words don’t ease the hurt. I miss my grandson. I miss my son. I even miss Emily, cold as she is.
Two weeks have passed, and no one’s come. James called once, asking if I’d changed my mind. I said, “James, you know where I live.” He mumbled something about being busy and hung up. I’ve heard Oliver asks why Grandma doesn’t visit, and Emily tells him, “Grandma’s resting.” Resting? I lie awake at night wondering how my boy is! But I won’t back down. I deserve respect, not to be treated like an on-call babysitter. If they want to be a family, they’ll have to show it.
Sometimes I blame myself—was I too harsh? Should I have endured it, for Oliver’s sake? But then I remember their indifference, and my resolve hardens. I won’t be the grandmother they remember only when they need help. I want to be part of their lives, not the hired help. My door’s open. The kettle’s on. There are tarts in the oven. But the next move is theirs. I’ll wait—however long it takes. Or maybe I won’t. Maybe it’s time to learn to live for myself, even if it hurts like hell.
