Ten Years as a Cook and Nanny for My Son’s Family, Without a Hint of Gratitude: The Story of a Retired Teacher Who Devoted a Decade to Her Grandchild, Household Chores, and Unseen Sacrifice Before Finally Finding Freedom at Sixty-Five

Author Emily TaylorReading 4 minViews 3

For ten long years, I worked as a cook in my son’s household, yet received no thanks for my labour.

A retired school mistress, I took my leave at fifty-five years of age. For a decade after, I lived with my son’s family beneath their roof. I recall meeting with an old friend not so long agoshe was delighted to tell me she had taken her second retirement. How fondly I remember those early days, just after I left my position, when I moved into my son’s home and locked up my own flata place I never let to tenants, perhaps out of fear or uncertainty.

My relationship with my daughter-in-law was good; there were neither quarrels nor harsh words between us. We divided the domestic chores in peace, getting on as well as any could hope. Still, I believe the undertaking required true heroism. Our shared life began when my grandson was but one year old, and I spent nearly a decade under their roof.

Once my daughter-in-law returned to her career, the brunt of the householda word I do not use lightlyfell upon me. Most pressing of all was the care of a small child, and that is no simple matter. Not every soul would accept such responsibility.

From dawn until the young couple came home at seven oclock in the evening, I was nursemaid, cook, and cleaning lady. Only then could I rest for a short while, before beginning the whole cycle anew each morning.

The child grew, starting school at lastno simple feat in itself, involving journeys by double-decker bus! I escorted him to his lessons and waited to collect him, well into his junior years. Meanwhile, my duties as housekeeper and cook were never put aside.

During those years, I sometimes became so weary by evening that I would doze before the fireplace, unable even to watch the telly. No meetings with friends, no outings for pleasurenothing. On holidays, the young ones went off to celebrate with friends, while I stayed back with the child.

When my grandson approached his tenth birthday, I might well have continued working in their midstwere it not for a twist of fate that brought me liberty once more.

I remember overhearing my daughter-in-law remark to my son, Your mum must use too much washing powderour linen smells of chemicals. Tell her gently, will you? Ten whole years of washing, and not a word until then! I swallowed the hurt.

Soon after, my daughter-in-law suggested that my bedroom be given over to the boy, with me relocating to the box room. That was the moment I knew my time there was finished.

I gathered my belongings and returned to my own flat. I gave it a good cleaning, freshened the place, and settled back in. And then something curious happened: my son and daughter-in-law took offence at my departure, as though they had expected me to remain until my last breath, working endlessly. They had grown too accustomed to my presence.

It is a sorrowful business, for truly, no one acknowledged my efforts. It was as if I were expected to wash, cook, and clean without need of rest or recognition, as though I were not a person at all.

They fell out with me and ceased communication. But I am an optimiststill a believer in happy endings.

Now, at sixty-five, I find myself living for my own pleasure at last. Theres no rush; no heavy responsibilities. How little we truly require for happiness!

So it is: at sixty-five, I found a new joy. Remember the old tune? Second youth comes to those who cherish the first. I have felt that enchantmentfreedom to live for my own sake, a complete release from obligations.

Call it selflessness if you like. Perhaps the word seems grandbut such sacrifice is very real.

I believe few truly understand what goes into it, not even one’s own children. People swiftly grow used to someone else doing the washing, cooking, setting the table and clearing it, keeping the sheets crisp and clean. They grow comfortable knowing their child is well cared for, fed, tucked in, and helped with homework. How quickly it becomes expected!

The Last Summer at Home Vladimir arrived on Wednesday, just as the midday sun warmed the roof so much that the slates began to crackle. The garden gate had dropped off its hinges three years ago; he stepped over it and paused at the porch. Three steps—bottom one completely rotted. He tested his weight on the second, then continued inside. The air smelled stale, with a hint of mice. A thick layer of dust coated the sills; a cobweb stretched from the beam to the old sideboard. Vladimir pushed open a stiff window—sun-baked nettle and dry grass from the yard flooded in. He made the rounds of all four rooms, mentally listing jobs: mop the floors, check the fireplace, fix the summerhouse plumbing, throw out everything that’s rotted. Then call Andrew, Mum, the nephews. Tell them: come in August, spend a month here like we used to. Back then—twenty-five years ago—Dad was alive, and every summer the whole family gathered here. Vladimir remembered boiling jam in a copper pan, brothers hauling buckets from the well, Mum reading aloud on the veranda at sunset. After Dad died, Mum moved to the city with the youngest. The house was boarded up. Vladimir came by once a year to check it hadn’t been looted, then left again. But this spring, something clicked: he wanted to try and bring it back. Just once. The first week he worked alone: swept the chimney, replaced two porch boards, cleaned the windows. Drove to the nearby town for paint and cement, arranged for a local electrician to see the wiring. The Parish Council chairman, bumping into him outside the shop, shook his head. “Why bother, Vlad? You’ll end up selling it anyway.” “I’m not selling this autumn,” Vladimir answered, and moved on. Andrew was first to arrive, Saturday evening, kids in tow. He stared at the yard, wrinkling his nose. “Seriously? A whole month here?” “Three weeks,” Vladimir corrected. “The kids need fresh air. So do you.” “We’ve not even got a shower.” “There’s a bathhouse. I’ll heat it tonight.” The kids, a boy aged eleven and a girl of eight, trudged to the old swing Vladimir had strung from an oak the day before. Andrew’s wife, Sylvia, hauled a bag of groceries inside without a word. Vladimir helped unload. Andrew still scowled but said nothing. Mum came Monday, driven by the neighbour. She stepped into the house, paused in the front room and sighed. “Everything’s so small,” she whispered. “I remember it bigger.” “You’ve not set foot here in thirty years, Mum.” “Thirty-two.” She ran a palm over the kitchen worktop. “It was always chilly here. Dad promised to put in heating, but never got round to it.” Vladimir heard tiredness, not nostalgia, in her voice. He poured her tea, sat her on the veranda. She looked out at the garden and spoke of hauling water, of back pain after laundry days, gossiping neighbours. Vladimir listened and realised—for her, this wasn’t a nest, but an old wound. When she went to bed, he and Andrew sat around a fire in the yard. The children slept, Sylvia read by candlelight—power connected only to half the house. “Why all this effort?” Andrew asked, staring into the flames. “I wanted us all together.” “We see each other at Christmas.” “It’s not the same.” Andrew snorted. “Bit of a romantic, Vlad. Think we’ll be closer after three weeks here?” “I don’t know. I had to try.” Andrew was silent, then spoke softer: “Glad you did. But don’t expect a miracle.” Vladimir didn’t. But he hoped. The next days were busy. Vladimir fixed the fence; Andrew helped re-roof the shed. The boy, Archie, sulked at first, then found old rods in the shed and spent days on the riverbank. The girl, Sophie, weeded the new vegetable patch with Grandma. One afternoon, painting the veranda together, Sylvia laughed: “We look like some old commune.” “At least communes had a plan,” Andrew grumbled, but he smiled. The tension eased. Evenings saw them dining at a makeshift long table on the veranda. Mum made soup, Sylvia baked cottage cheese pies from the village shop. Chatter was all about small things: where to get mosquito netting, whether to mow the grass, if the pump had been fixed. But one night, with the kids in bed, Mum said, “Your father wanted to sell this place—a year before he died.” Vladimir froze, mug in hand. Andrew frowned. “Why?” “He was tired. Called the place an anchor. Wanted a flat near the hospital in town. I was against it—thought it was our inheritance. We fought. He never sold, then he died.” Vladimir set his mug down. “Do you blame yourself?” “I don’t know. I just… grew tired of this house. It’s a reminder I pushed for my way, and he never got his peace.” Andrew leant back. “You never said.” “You never asked.” Vladimir looked at her—bent, old, hands worn—and now he saw the house wasn’t a treasure, but a weight. “Maybe we should have sold,” he murmured. “Maybe,” Mum agreed. “But you grew up here. That counts.” “Counts for what?” She met his gaze. “So you remember who you were, before life pulled you all apart.” He didn’t believe straight away. But next day, taking Andrew and Archie to fish, and watching his brother laugh for real as Archie showed off their first catch, Vladimir understood a little. And in the evening, hearing Mum teach Sophie to read where she once taught Dad—her voice didn’t sound pained anymore. Something else: maybe peace. Departure was set for Sunday. The night before, Vladimir fired up the old sauna; they all bathed, then drank tea on the veranda. Archie asked if they’d come again next year. Andrew glanced at Vladimir, but said nothing. In the morning, Vladimir helped pack up. Mum embraced him at the gate. “Thank you for inviting us.” “I thought it would be better.” “It was good. In its way.” Andrew clapped him on the shoulder. “Sell it, if you want. I’m fine with it.” “We’ll see.” The car left; dust settled on the lane. Vladimir went back inside, tidied dishes, took out the rubbish. Closed windows, locked up. Fished a rusty barn lock from his pocket, looped it on the gate. Heavy, rusted, but strong. He stood at the gate, looking at the house—roof straight, porch solid, windows shining. The house looked alive. But Vladimir knew better. A house is alive when people are in it. For three weeks, this one had been alive. Maybe that was enough. He got in the car. In the mirror, the roof flashed once, then the trees hid it. Vladimir drove slowly on the rough lane, thinking of calling an estate agent in autumn. But for now—all he wanted was to remember them all, laughing, eating together, as Archie proudly displayed his fish. The house had done its job. It brought them together. And maybe that was enough to finally let it go without regret. The Last Summer at Home