She Claimed to Be an Orphan to Marry into a Wealthy British Family and Hired Me as a Nanny for My Own Grandson – Is There Anything More Heartbreaking Than Your Own Daughter Paying You a Salary Just to Hold Your Grandchild? I Became a Servant in Her Mansion, Wearing a Uniform and Lowering My Gaze When She Walked Past—Just to Be Close to Her Child. She Told Her Husband I Was “Mary from the Agency,” but When My Grandson Accidentally Called Me “Gran” Yesterday, She Fired Me to Protect Her Lie. Here’s My Story.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 5 min

She claimed to be an orphan to marry into a wealthy family, and hired me as a nanny for my own grandson.
Is there anything more painful than your own daughter paying you a wage just so you can hold your grandson?
I accepted the role of servant in her grand manor, agreed to wear a uniform and keep my head bowed when she passed byjust to be near her son. She told her husband I was the woman from the agency. But yesterday, when the child called me Grandma by accident, she dismissed me like some useless trinket, anxious to protect her lie.

My story
In this vast house filled with echoing halls and marble floors, my name is Mary. Just Mary. The nanny. The woman who washes bottles, changes nappies, and sleeps in a tiny windowless room.
But my true name is Mum. Or at least, it wasbefore my daughter decided to erase me from her life while I was still breathing.
My daughters name was Charlotte. She was always beautiful. And she always resented our poverty. She hated the house with its leaky roof, loathed the fact I baked teas and sold homemade pies at the market to pay for her schooling.
At twenty, she left.
I want a life that doesnt smell of dough and sweat, she told me.
She disappeared for three years. Returned a new person. She changed her surname, dyed her hair blonde, took etiquette classes. She met Edwarda wealthy businessman, a good man, but rather old-fashioned. To fit into his world, Charlotte wove a tragic tale: she was an orphan, the only child of academics lost in a car crash on the continent. A lonely, well-bred woman without a past.
When she fell pregnant, fear gripped her. She knew nothing about babies. She didnt trust strangers. She needed someone to love her unconditionallyand at the same time, keep her secret.
Thats when she found me.
Mum, I need you, she sobbed at my door, her shoes likely costing more than my entire flat. But you must understand. Edward doesnt know you exist. If he discovers who my mother really is, hell leave me. His family is very particular.
What do you want me to do, love?
Come and live with us. Youll be the live-in nanny. Ill pay you. Youll get to be with your grandson. But you have to promise never, under any circumstances, to say youre my mother. To everyone else, youre Marythe agency nanny.
I agreed.
Because I am a mother. And because the thought of never seeing my grandson hurt more than any pride I could summon.
I lived this lie for two long years.
Edward is a good man.
Morning, Mary, he always says kindly. Thank you for taking such good care of little Henry. I really dont know what wed do without you.
But Charlotteshes my executioner.
When Edwards not home, her chill is biting.
Mary, dont kiss the child. Its unhygienic.
Mary, dont sing those old tunes, I want him to have a taste for the classics.
Mary, go to your room when guests arrive. I dont want you seen.
I say nothing and I hold Henry close. He is my light. He doesnt recognise class or secrets. He only knows my arms are safe.
Yesterday was his second birthday.
A garden party. Balloons. Elegant guests. Laughter and prosecco.
I stood in my grey uniform, never out of sight of the child.
Charlotte sparkled, displaying her perfect life.
How I wish my parents were here to see their grandson, she said to a posh-looking guest.
Then Henry fell. Grazed his little knee and howled.
Charlotte rushed to him, but he shoved her away.
He reached for me and shouted, clear and loud:
Grandma! Want Grandma!
Everything froze.
Edwards brow furrowed. Charlotte turned pale.
What did the boy say? someone asked.
Nothing, Charlotte said quickly. Its just what he calls the nanny, out of affection.
Henry flung his arms around me.
Grandma, kiss better.
I held him. I didnt care anymore.
Im right here, sweetheart.
Charlotte shot daggers at me with her eyes. She wrenched Henry from my arms.
Inside! And pack your things. Youre fired!
Edward intervened.
Why are you sacking her? The boy adores her.
Shes overstepped her boundaries! Charlotte snapped.
He looked me square in the eye.
Mary why does Henry call you Grandma?
I glanced at my daughter. She begged me silently.
Then I looked at Henry.
Mr. Edward, I said quietly, because children always speak the truth.
And I told him everything.
Showed them the old photos. The truth spilled out.
The disappointment in Edwards eyes was sharper than anger.
I dont care about your background, he told Charlotte. But you denied your mother.
He turned to me.
This is your home too.
No, I said gently. My home is wherever my name is not a source of shame.
I kissed Henry.
And I walked away.
Today, I am home. The air smells of baking bread and warmth.
It hurts. I miss my grandson.
But I have my name back.
And no one can take that from me.
So what do you thinkis such a lie ever acceptable for the sake of love, or does the truth always find its way in the end?

The Further Away, the Dearer the Heart… “You know what, my dearest grandson! If I’m such a burden, there’s only one choice left. I won’t go live with my daughters anymore, nor will I traipse about from friend to friend. And I certainly don’t need you matchmaking me for some old gentleman—imagine, marrying me off in my golden years! —Gran, it’s what I’ve been telling you for ages! Mum says the same—just move into the retirement home. All you have to do is sign the house over to me, and you’ll get a cozy room, Mum will sort it out. There’ll be people to chat with, neighbours close by, and you won’t be in my way anymore. —I’m not leaving my house for anyone, Sasha. If I’m in your way, there’s the door and seven roads—take your pick. You’re young, clever, find a flat and live as you please. If you won’t study, go get a job. Parade a different girl home every day if you want. I’m a woman of nearly 65; I need peace and quiet. I’ve wandered enough these past couple of years. Time to come home. It just isn’t right, my boy—when you drive me out of my own house and live off my pension with your girlfriends. My pension isn’t endless. So you’ve one week. If you can’t find a place, go to your friends or that girlfriend—her name I keep forgetting—but I want you out of my home by tonight. First you try to foist a husband on me, then pack me off to a care home—ridiculous!” Her indignant grandson tried to argue, but Lydia Pavlovna was done listening. She walked silently to her room and closed the door, her head pounding. She ought to take a pill, but it would mean braving the kitchen and a run-in with her grandson, which she’d rather avoid. Glancing around her small room, Lida spotted a bottle of sparkling water—just enough for a sip. *** Lida never thought she’d stand up for herself with such resolve. Years of biting her tongue had caught up with her. For two long years, she’d endured in silence, running to one daughter or the other whenever summoned—and just as quickly heading home at their first hint of overstaying her welcome. Now, her twenty-year-old grandson was master of her own home—different ‘true loves’ trailing behind him every week as if Gran’s mere presence and sniffles behind the wall were ruining his romantic atmosphere. —Gran, why not go stay with someone, let us have the house to ourselves—Dasha, Masha, Sveta, Ira (circle as appropriate, they change often) would appreciate it! So Lydia Pavlovna stayed with her cousin, her old workmate, her friend’s wife – initially welcomed, but eventually she realised her visits were a strain. *** When there was nowhere left to go, her eldest daughter had a baby. City life, a mortgage, a school-age child—the family needed Gran more than ever. At first, everyone was happy: dinners hot, house tidy, children cared for. But after a few months, her son-in-law—barely a decade younger than Lydia—grew snippy. “Lydia, don’t buy those sausages—they’re poison! If you’re at home all day, can’t you make proper meals—homemade burgers, a proper roast…?” “Lydia, why are you spending so much on groceries and toiletries? You need to economise!” “Lydia! Do I look like a cow, gnawing on vegetables? We need more meat, but do keep an eye on the budget.” “You’re home anyway—can’t you help the eldest with her studies? Why are we paying for tutors with a perfectly good grandmother in residence?” Even her eldest granddaughter, just a bold nine-year-old, found fault—Gran’s clothes were embarrassing, she made her study, ‘Gran, why are you even here? Off to your country house, go play boss there!’ Lida endured it all. Her meagre pension bought meat for her son-in-law, pocket money for the embarrassed granddaughter, and even topped up the grandson’s bills—just to keep the house running. Complaining was pointless; her daughter worshipped her husband, never a word against him. When the youngest granddaughter started nursery, Lydia’s job was done. Her son-in-law said it plainly: “Thank you, Lydia, but we don’t need you now, time to go home.” Lydia’s heart sang with relief—finally she’d have her own space again. But her grandson had moved back in, with a girlfriend in tow. The place was a dump; bills unpaid, even the electric at risk. With no other option, Lydia took out a personal loan, settled the debts, scrubbed the house clean. Still, her grandson complained—no privacy with Gran coughing behind thin walls. And then, providence: her youngest daughter needed help with a newborn. Off she went again—only to realise after three months that she was, once again, surplus to requirements. Lydia fled before she could be asked to leave, returning to yet another frown from her grandson. Lydia might have carried on like this forever had it not been for one incident after returning home… House clean (she always paid her own way), debts gone, but again: “Gran, I’m going to Karen’s today—it’s her birthday, I’ll be back late. Lock up after yourselves, I’ll use the back door so I don’t disturb you.” “Why not stay the night then? Give us a break!” “Where would you two get tired of me in seven days?” “You won’t stay?” “No, I’ll come home.” The party was joyful—first the café, then just the close friends at Karen’s place, reminiscing about youth, steering clear of complaints. Lida was just about to head home when Karen’s phone rang—it was Lida’s daughter, Nastya. “Is everything all right? Why didn’t she call me?” Karen answered quietly: “She just asked to keep you here for the night. Sasha rang his mum—wants you to give them space. She called me—said if you won’t go to a care home, perhaps we can find you an old gent with a flat, so Sasha can get married without Gran breathing down his neck.” Lida poured out everything—to Karen and later, to her grandson and daughter: all the years of juggling, of being unwelcome in her own home. Sasha left, vowing never to return or help. At last, Lida was alone—and relished it: after a lifetime of accommodating everyone else, she could finally breathe. Her daughters called, hoping for babysitting—she said, “Bring the children to me. The air is better here, and in my own home I’m the boss. No more running around for everyone else.” Lida says: the further away, the dearer they become. And I think she’s right.

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