For two weeks I cared for my grandson, only to be met with a row instead of gratitude—my daughter-in-law claimed I’d done it all wrong.
It began late one evening. Past ten, the phone rang. My son’s face flashed on the screen. His voice trembled: “Mum, they’ve taken Carina to hospital. The pain was so bad, the doctors didn’t want to risk it. I’m going with her, but there’s no one to look after little Oliver. You’re our only hope…” Within half an hour, he stood at my door with a travel cot, bags, and his eighteen-month-old boy. His eyes were full of worry and pleading. Of course, I couldn’t refuse, though my relationship with Carina, his wife, had always been—well—frosty, to put it mildly.
Since Oliver was born, I’d felt like an outsider in their lives. How many times had I offered to help—with meals, with the baby, just to give them a moment’s rest? The answer was always the same: “Thanks, we’ll manage.” So I stayed back. But it ached—I was his grandmother. I longed to be part of his world. The last time I’d seen him was in spring. Then Carina shut me out completely. During the pandemic, it became paranoia: everything scrubbed with bleach, doors nudged open with elbows, no visitors allowed.
And now, in their hour of need, they finally let me in. My son left me a full arsenal: jars of food, creams, instructions, spare clothes, even a yoga ball. “Carina rocks him to sleep on this—he won’t settle without it,” he explained quickly. I nodded, though privately thought: *Nonsense. A child should learn to sleep on his own.* After sending my son off to the hospital, I rang my boss and took two weeks’ leave. It wasn’t my first time handling trouble.
That first night was hard, of course. The little one wailed so loudly, the neighbours knocked to ask if all was well. I apologised, explained. They shrugged and left. But by the third night, he drifted off more easily. I stroked his back—slow, steady. He slept under my hand, as though it were a lullaby.
Five days later, Carina called. She grilled me: what was I feeding him? How was he sleeping? What colour was the puree? I answered evenly. Told her all was well, that he happily ate my homemade fruit and vegetable blends—I made them myself, distrusting shop-bought jars. Silence. She didn’t believe he could sleep without the ball, without their rituals.
Two weeks passed. I lived for that boy, pouring my heart into him. My hands remembered how to hold a child; my breath matched his. I was tired, yes. But happy. At last, I felt like a grandmother.
When Carina came home, I handed Oliver over, neatly packed his things. Not a “thank you,” not a smile. Just a hard stare and the words:
“You did it all wrong.”
“Pardon?” I blinked.
“You broke his routine. Now he cries at night, and your purees gave him a rash. You ignored us. I said stick to the plan. Why didn’t you follow our ways?”
I was stunned. Two weeks without complaint, and now—this. Instead of thanks, a quarrel. It stung. I hadn’t forced my way in—I’d helped when they were desperate. And all I got was blame.
Now I’m barred from seeing my grandson. Carina says she doesn’t trust me. I glimpse Oliver only in photos my son posts online. He stays silent, doesn’t interfere. And I don’t push. But inside, I’m torn apart.
I don’t think I was wrong. I raised my son without yoga balls, and he turned out fine. But now? Nappies by the clock, weaning by the gram—everything by the book. Where’s the love in that?
I don’t know who’s right. I only know this: I’m his grandmother, and I love him. And if they ever call again, begging for help—I’ll open my door without hesitation. But the hurt of their ingratitude, their chill—that will stay with me forever.
