Two weeks I cared for my grandson, only to be met with anger instead of gratitude—my daughter-in-law claimed I had done everything wrong.
It began late one evening. Past ten, the phone rang. My son’s face flashed on the screen, his voice tight. *”Mum, they’ve taken Emily to hospital—severe pain. The doctors wouldn’t wait. I’m going with her, but there’s no one to look after little Henry. You’re the only one I can ask…”* Within half an hour, he stood at my doorstep, arms full of nappy bags, instructions, and my trembling grandson. His eyes begged me, though we both knew his wife and I had never warmed to one another.
Since Henry was born, I’d been kept at arm’s length. Countless times I’d offered help—cooking, babysitting, just to give them a break—only to hear, *”Thanks, but we’ve got it.”* I never pushed. Yet it stung. I was his grandmother. I *wanted* to be part of his life. The last time I’d held Henry was months ago, before Emily shut the door entirely. During the pandemic, paranoia took over—surfaces scrubbed raw, elbows on door handles, no visitors allowed.
Now, in crisis, they let me in. My son left behind an arsenal: creams, schedules, spare clothes, even a yoga ball. *”Emily rocks him to sleep on this. He won’t settle otherwise,”* he rushed to explain. I nodded, though privately thought, *Nonsense. A child should learn to sleep without props.* After he left, I rang my boss and took two weeks’ leave. I’d handled worse.
The first night was chaos. Henry wailed loud enough for the neighbours to knock, concerned. I apologised, explained. They shrugged and left. But by the third night, he dozed off quicker. My palm on his back, steady and slow—like a lullaby without words.
Five days in, Emily called. Sharp questions: *What are you feeding him? How’s he sleeping? What colour is his puree?* I answered calmly. Told her he loved my homemade blends—fresh vegetables, fruits, nothing from a jar. Silence. She didn’t believe he could sleep without the ball, without their rigid routine.
Two weeks passed. I lived for that boy, poured every bit of love into him. My arms remembered the weight of a child; my heart kept time with his breaths. Exhausted, yes—but happier than I’d been in years. Finally, I *felt* like his grandmother.
When Emily returned, I handed Henry over, neatly packed his things. No *thank you*, no smile. Just a cold stare and the words:
*”You did it all wrong.”*
*”Pardon?”*
*”You ruined his routine. Now he cries at night. And your food gave him a rash. We had a system—why didn’t you follow it?”*
I stood frozen. Two weeks of silence, and now—blame. Not gratitude, just fury. It *hurt*. I hadn’t asked for this. I’d stepped in when they needed me. And all I got in return was *”You’ve broken everything.”*
Now I’m forbidden from seeing Henry. Emily says she doesn’t trust me. My son stays silent. I only see my grandson in the photos he posts online. I don’t fight it. But inside? Shattered.
I don’t think I was wrong. I raised my son without yoga balls or spreadsheets, and he turned out fine. Now? Sleep charts, meals by the gram, love by the manual. Where’s the heart in that?
I don’t know who’s right. But I know this: I’m his grandmother. I love him. And if they ever call again, desperate, I’ll open my door without hesitation.
But the sting of their ingratitude? That will stay with me forever.
