**Diary Entry – 12th June**
It all started late one evening, well past ten, when the phone rang. My son’s face flashed on the screen, his voice shaky: *“Mum, they’ve taken Emily to hospital—sharp pains, doctors didn’t want to risk it. I’m going with her, but there’s no one to look after little Henry. You’re our only hope…”* Half an hour later, he stood on my doorstep, arms full of bags, a travel cot, and my one-and-a-half-year-old grandson. His eyes begged me, wide with worry. Of course, I couldn’t say no—even though things with Emily, his wife, had always been… let’s say, frosty.
Since Henry was born, I’d felt like an outsider. How many times had I offered to help? Cooking, babysitting, just giving them a break—always met with, *“Thanks, but we’ve got it.”* I never pushed. But it stung. I’m his grandmother; I wanted to be part of his life. The last time I’d seen Henry was in spring. Then Emily shut me out completely. During the pandemic, it turned into paranoia—everything bleached, elbows on door handles, no visitors allowed.
And now, in their hour of need, they finally let me in. My son left me an arsenal: jars, creams, instructions, spare clothes, even a yoga ball. *“Emily rocks him to sleep on this—won’t go down without it,”* he explained hurriedly. I nodded, though privately I thought, *“Rubbish. A child should learn to sleep on his own.”* After seeing him off to the hospital, I rang work and took two weeks’ leave. Been through worse scrapes before.
The first night was rough. Henry wailed so loudly the neighbours knocked to check if everything was alright. I apologised, explained. They shrugged and left. By the third night, though, he settled quicker. A slow, steady rub on his back—he’d drift off under my hand, as if it were a lullaby.
Five days in, Emily called. What was I feeding him? How was he sleeping? What colour were his nappies? I answered calmly. Told her he was fine, eating my homemade vegetable and fruit purées—I’d never trusted shop-bought jars. Silence on her end. She didn’t believe he could sleep without the ball, without *her* routines.
Two weeks passed. I lived for that little boy, poured everything into him. My arms remembered how to hold a baby; my heart beat with his breath. Exhausted? Yes. Happy? More than I’d been in years. For the first time, I *felt* like a grandmother.
When Emily was discharged, I handed Henry back, packed his things neatly. Not a *“thank you,”* not a smile. Just a sharp glare and: *“You did everything wrong.”*
*“Pardon?”*
*“You ruined his routine. Now he cries at night, and your purées gave him a rash. We *told* you to follow the instructions. Why didn’t you listen?”*
I was stunned. Two weeks without a single complaint, and now this? Instead of gratitude, an argument. It hurt. I hadn’t asked to be there—I’d *helped*. And all I got was, *“You messed it up.”*
Now I’m banned from seeing Henry. Emily says she doesn’t trust me. I only see him in photos my son posts online. He stays quiet, doesn’t interfere. And I don’t push. But inside? It’s tearing me apart.
I don’t think I did wrong. Raised my son without yoga balls or strict schedules, and he turned out just fine. Now it’s nappies by the clock, food weighed to the gram, everything by the book. Where’s the love in that?
I don’t know who’s right or wrong. I only know this: I’m his grandmother, and I love him. If they ever call again, desperate, I’ll open the door in a heartbeat. But this—this ingratitude, this coldness—it’ll stay with me forever.
**Lesson learnt:** Love doesn’t always come with thanks. Sometimes it just leaves scars.
