My grandmother was not a good personshe was quite dreadful in some ways, truly unreasonable.
My parents split up very early; I was only a toddler then and I can’t recall my father at all. We moved into my grandmother’s house when I was just five, and she took charge of my upbringing from then on.
As a person, Grandma was difficult beyond measure. Her main rules: obedience and work, work, work. I struggle to remember anything pleasant about her; nothing shines out from my childhood spent with her.
Where others look back sadly on their childhood, I prefer to block those years out entirely. There’s nothing there to remember fondly. Mum didn’t help much. I had nowhere to escape tothose bleak days of the early 90s. I could only dream of pounds and employment, and had to settle for whatever was at hand. Grandma issued commands to me and Mum, running the household as she saw fit.
That was simply life. When we were out in public, of course, we acted as though everything was perfectly normal.
In my fifth year at school, things improved for Mum. A gentleman from Leeds asked her to move in; a year later, I joined them. My stepfather never liked me much, but he wasn’t unkind. Compared to Grandmawhere every conversation flared into misunderstandingsour new life felt almost heavenly.
Grandma disapproved of Mums new relationship, but Mum simply seized the chance to escape from her skirted tyrant. After that, contact between them ceased entirely.
I telephone Grandma now and then.
I call her once a month, preparing myself for ages before the conversation. I keep things brief, talking about trivial matters. To avoid torrents of her negativity, I focus on happy news and make sure the exchange stays short, full of generic phrases and pleasant little messages. Twice a year, for birthdays and the odd nameday, I bring flowers and a Victoria sponge, stay no longer than half an hour, and that’s that. That’s how we keep in touch.
Nowadays, life is kindly to me: I have a beloved husband, a young son, and a close-knit family. Recently, my husband and I decided to buy a flat, taking a mortgage in another city. Last year, Grandma turned eighty.
Before then, she was sharp and managed her affairs independently. Lately, though, things have slipped.
Grandma is withdrawn, barely able to leave the house, let alone cook a meal. Most often, shes stretched out in her armchair, though she shuffles through the rooms on rare occasions. She fell ill recentlyher neighbours pitched in with everything. Now its clear: Grandma needs proper care.
Shes got a whole parade of distant relatives who suddenly ring me up with criticisms! Mum and her husband live abroad, so relatives see me as the responsible one.
But I know what kind of hell awaits. She did, after all, raise me, feed me, teach me. In a way, perhaps it’s my turn to settle the debt. But I don’t want to! All through my childhood, she never showed love. I managed to let go of the bitterness for her behaviour towards me, but forgiveness? Thats a step too far. Still, guilt creeps inI know the old woman needs help.
A private nurse would be ideal, but the money simply isnt there. With a sick son and mortgage bills looming, my hands are tied.
What am I to do?
Is it really a granddaughters duty to care for her elderly grandmother? Or can she politely refuse, especially when theres no expectation of inheritance? She wishes for neither the property nor the kinshipand such a grandmother, shed rather not claim as her own.
