When my daughter asked me to stay with them for a week and look after my grandson, I had no idea I’d end up bringing not just myself but also a mop and an apron for months on end.
When she called and asked me to come over for a week, I didn’t hesitate for a second. She was preparing for some important exams and needed help with her two-year-old. All my friends thought I was mad—Louise, they said, do you really have to be the one to say yes? Agree once, and you’ll never get out of it. But I couldn’t refuse. She’s my daughter. That’s my grandson.
I arrived at their small two-bed flat in a quiet part of Manchester with just one suitcase and the sincere wish to be useful. But I quickly realised I wasn’t just there as a grandmother—I was the cleaner, the cook, the laundress, and, the cherry on top, a full-time unpaid nanny.
My son-in-law was working around the clock, my daughter was glued to her laptop from morning till night, studying. And the whole household fell on my shoulders—cooking, cleaning, the washing machine, and the dishwasher, which, by the way, was broken, so I had to wash everything by hand.
Fine, I thought. I’ll manage. It’s just a week. One. Single. Week.
But that week stretched into two, then three. Before I knew it, a whole month had slipped by. My daughter finished her exams but immediately started sending out CVs, job hunting. I didn’t leave—how could I? The little one needed me.
No one asked me to stay. But no one told me to go, either. It just sort of happened—I saw they needed me, so I stayed. But with each passing day, I caught more and more disapproving glances. First because the soup wasn’t to their liking. Then because I’d hung my son-in-law’s clothes in the wrong place. Before long, I was just “in the way.”
In their home, I’d become like a ghost—helping, doing everything, yet feeling like an outsider. And no one ever said, “Mum, thank you.” No one ever said plainly, “Mum, maybe it’s time you went home.” No. Just sideways smirks and sighs. And here I was, hoping they’d see how much I was doing for them and say something—anything—kind. Or at least make me a proper cup of tea instead of tossing me a teabag.
I never imagined my love and help would turn into this invisible kind of prison.
Back in my own cosy little flat in Bristol, everything is clean, quiet, just the way I like it. My knitting, my old books, the violets on the windowsill—they’re all waiting for me. But here I am. Every day, I’m up at six to make breakfast, then feed my grandson, change him, take him out. Lunch, laundry, mopping floors. Dinner in the evening. And at night, I lie on the sofa in the nursery wondering—is this how it’s always going to be?
But I’m her mother. I’m his grandmother. And I won’t walk away. I’m waiting. Waiting for the day my daughter says, “Mum, we’re so grateful for everything.” Or even just, “Mum, you must be tired—rest a while.” Maybe my son-in-law will smile and say, “We’d never manage without you.”
For now—silence.
Maybe they just don’t realise yet. Maybe the young take time to understand the weight of a mother’s sacrifice. And yes, sometimes it feels like they take me for granted—like I’m a tool, not a person.
But I keep hoping. I keep believing that my love, my patience, my care—that they matter. That they won’t be forgotten. I don’t want my kindness to become a heavy stone of guilt they drag behind them. I want it to be a foundation, an example. So that my daughter, when she’s older, understands how important it is not just to take, but to appreciate.
If they’re not ready yet—I’ll wait. I’m a mother. And like all mothers, my heart holds an endless supply of faith, even when it hurts.
