For two weeks, I looked after my grandson, and instead of gratitude, I got a shouting match—my daughter-in-law told me I’d done everything wrong.
It all started late one evening. It was past ten when the phone rang. My son’s name flashed on the screen. His voice was shaky: *”Mum, they’ve taken Emily to hospital—she was in terrible pain, and the doctors didn’t want to take any chances. I’m going with her, but there’s no one to watch little Oliver. You’re the only one who can help…”* Within half an hour, my son was on the doorstep with a travel bag, nappies, and a sleepy one-year-old in his arms. His eyes were full of worry, begging me to say yes. How could I refuse? Even though things with Emily, his wife, have always been… let’s just say, frosty.
Ever since Oliver was born, I’ve felt like an outsider in their lives. How many times did I offer to help—cooking, babysitting, just giving them a break? Every time, the answer was the same: *”Thanks, but we’ve got it under control.”* I never pushed. But it stung. I’m his grandma—I *want* to be part of his life. The last time I saw him was in spring. Then Emily completely shut me out. During the pandemic, it turned into full-blown paranoia—everything bleached, no visitors, doors locked tight.
And now, when disaster struck, they finally let me in. My son left me with an entire manual: creams, jars, instructions, spare clothes—even a yoga ball. *”Emily rocks him to sleep on this—won’t sleep without it,”* he said quickly. I nodded, but inside, I thought, *”Oh, come off it. He’ll learn to sleep without a bloomin’ ball.”* After he left, I rang my boss and took two weeks off. I’ve handled worse.
That first night was rough, no lie. The little lad cried so much the neighbours knocked to check if everything was alright. I apologised, explained the situation. They just shrugged and left. But by the third night, he was settling faster. I’d rub his back—slow, steady—and he’d drift off under my hand, like it was a lullaby.
Five days in, Emily called. She grilled me—what was I feeding him? How was he sleeping? What colour were his nappies? What brand of purée? I kept calm, told her everything was fine. Said he was eating my homemade mash—carrots, apples, the lot. Never trusted those shop-bought jars. Silence on the other end. She didn’t believe he’d sleep without the ball, without their *rituals*.
Two weeks passed. I poured everything into that boy—my arms remembered how to hold a baby, my heart beat with his breaths. I was knackered, but happy. For the first time in ages, I felt like a proper grandma.
When Emily came home, I handed Oliver over, packed his things neatly. No *”thank you.”* Not even a smile. Just a hard stare and:
*”You did it all wrong.”*
*”Pardon?”*
*”You ruined his routine. Now he screams at night, and your purées gave him a rash. We *told* you to stick to the plan. Why didn’t you listen?”*
I was gobsmacked. Two weeks, and not a single complaint—now this? Instead of thanks, a row. It hurt. I never asked to be there—I *helped* when they needed me. And all I got was *”you messed everything up.”*
Now I’m banned from seeing him. Emily says she doesn’t trust me. The only time I see Oliver is in photos my son posts online. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t step in. And I won’t beg. But it tears me apart inside.
I don’t think I did wrong. I raised my son without yoga balls or timers, and he turned out just fine. Now it’s all schedules, weighed spoonfuls, rulebooks. Where’s the love in that?
I don’t know who’s right or wrong. But I know this: I’m his grandma, and I love him. And if they ever call again, desperate—I’ll open the door in a heartbeat. But the sting of their ingratitude? That’ll stay with me forever.
