We Love Our Grandchildren Dearly, But We’re Just Too Exhausted to Keep Looking After Them

Author Emily TaylorReading 3 minViews 1

Our grandchildren are truly dear to us, but we simply no longer have the strength to keep caring for them.

Its always said that children are a blessing. The same is often said for grandchildren. And, yes, I do agreeat least, when you dont have too many and youre still able to support them. My husband and I have just one daughter. As it happened, she told us when she was only nineteen that she was expecting and would soon be having a baby. Well, she ended up having twins. And then, she got married. For a while, I genuinely thought everything would somehow fall into place.

Obviously, our lives were turned upside down. A young mother with two little ones to look after. Her husband was equally young and barely earning enough to cover the basics. So, it was mostly up to us to keep everyone afloat financially. Both my husband and I had to take on extra shifts just to make ends meet for our daughter and her growing family. We were working from first light until nightfall.

For a time, the young couple lived with us. Every morning, Id be up at the crack of dawn for work, utterly exhausted because Id been up half the night tending to the twins so our daughter could get some sleep. Its hardly surprising that my health began to falter.

Literally three years passed this wayeventually, they found their feet, and the children got a bit bigger. Then my daughter came to us with news that she was pregnant again. I told her straight away that, honestly, it might be best to consider a termination; two children are hard enough to care for as it is. But she steadfastly refused. She insisted on having the baby. She did, and once again we found ourselves pulled back into the same routine. More mouths to feed, more money needed. My husband and I threw ourselves back into work yet again. Even though our son-in-law was now earning a bit more, how could he possibly support a family of five properly?

Eventually, my husband suffered a stroke, and I started having heart pains. It became painfully clear that our bodies couldnt withstand this strain any longer. I told my daughter that, from now on, theyd have to find a new way. Then she floored me by announcingshe was pregnant with her fourth child.

I had no words. What were they thinking? It seems like theyve just counted on us to keep carrying them indefinitely. But we just cant do it anymore. I dont know what else to do. I hate the thought that people might judge us for not always being there for our only daughter. But honestly, weve given all we possibly can.

John and Mary John had never wanted to leave his village for the city. He loved the open fields, the river, the meadows and woods, and his fellow villagers. He decided to become a farmer, to raise pigs, sell the meat, and if all went well, expand his business. He dreamed of building a big house; he already had a car, though it was old and modest, and he invested his grandmother’s house sale money into his farm. He had one more cherished dream—to marry Mary and make her the mistress of his future big house. They were already courting; Mary knew that John’s business was only just starting, he had no serious money yet, and the house was only half-built. She was a beauty. She had never planned to strive for anything herself. “That’s what my looks are for—let my husband provide for me. I just need to find a man who will take care of everything. My beauty is expensive,” she’d say to her friends. “John’s building a house, and he’s got a car,” replied her friend Lucy, “he just needs time. He can’t turn everything around so quickly.” “But I want it all, right now,” Mary would pout. “Who knows when Johnny will finally get somewhere? He doesn’t have the money.” John loved Mary, although he sensed her feelings weren’t what he’d hoped for. He still wished she would grow to love him. Everything might have gone well, except for the arrival of Tom in their village. Tom showed up with a friend to stay with his gran for the holidays. At first, he looked down on the local girls, bored at the village hall until he spotted the lovely Mary. Mary ignored the newcomer at first, but when she learned he was from a well-off family—his father a prominent city official—she quickly switched her attention to him. Tom was older, shared experienced lines with the ladies, and knew how to woo, often buying Mary bouquets she realized were delivered specially from the city. John saw Mary accepting Tom’s flowers and grew angry. “Don’t take his flowers, why are you trying to upset me?” But she just laughed. “Oh, don’t get so wound up, they’re just flowers, what’s the big deal?” John confronted Tom. “Don’t bring Mary flowers. She’s my girl and I’ve got plans for her.” Tom wouldn’t listen, and a fight broke out—thankfully John’s friends separated them. From then on, things soured between John and Mary; she avoided him, and he grew resentful. Mary knew Tom was only in the village for a month, and would leave soon enough. “I need to do something, hook Tom and get to the city. There’s nothing for me here. And I need to act fast,” she thought. Enticing Tom home wasn’t hard. Her parents went to market in the city, and she calculated the timing so they’d find her and Tom alone together. Her father, hard and stubborn, caught them—just as she planned. Both flustered, they were confronted by her parents. “What’s going on here?” her father snapped. Mary cast her eyes down; Tom shifted nervously. “All right. Tom, you must marry our daughter or I’ll ruin you. Now get in here.” What was said remains unknown, but the next day the young couple filed for marriage, parent in tow, while Mary’s mother prepared them for life in the city. News spread swiftly through the village. John was devastated but tried to hide it. Tom, inwardly, cursed his impulse. “Why did I come here? Why did I fall for a village girl’s trick? She’s not so naïve after all—she trapped me, calculating and sharp.” But Mary just wanted city life and happiness—a beautiful life. “No matter, I’ll love him, have his children, he’ll be glad it happened like this. Only, how will his parents accept me?” she wondered. But, to her surprise, his parents were delighted that Tom brought home a pretty, down-to-earth fiancée. They were tired of the city girls Tom paraded home—who only cared about money. Mary would feed and fuss over him; clearly, she’d be a good wife. “Come in, Mary, don’t be shy—make yourself at home,” his mother Helen said kindly, and his father, Mr. Mitchell, smiled. Mary did her best to be a good wife. The flat was a spacious four-bedroom, and Mary felt comfortable with Tom’s kindly parents. Tom began to appreciate Mary, deciding perhaps she wasn’t the schemer he thought. “Yes, she pulled a fast one with marriage, but she genuinely believes we’ll be happy,” he mused, though he didn’t really believe it himself. “Well, let it be so; she doesn’t ask awkward questions—probably feels guilty herself. She clearly doesn’t want to return to the village.” Tom began daydreaming about his bachelor days after the wedding—after all, he had plenty of mates in the city. But one night, Mary surprised everyone at dinner. “I’m pregnant. We’re having a baby…” “Congratulations, Mary! We’ve wanted grandchildren for so long,” Helen beamed, and Tom knew there was no point saying the child couldn’t have come at a worse time. The wedding came soon after, and Tom’s parents gifted the newlyweds a furnished flat. Mary noticed Tom wasn’t thrilled about impending fatherhood. “It’s all right, Tom will change once the baby comes, he’ll see what happiness it is,” Mary hoped, not realizing her husband’s heart was already half elsewhere. After the wedding, Tom threw himself into partying. He told Mary: “My work means constant business trips,” and she believed him, having no idea what work he really did. She never complained to his parents about his long absences, about nights away. She simply waited, cooked lovely meals, cleaned, and missed her old village, her friends, her mum and dad. Now, strangely, she couldn’t stop thinking of John. Now she began to question if she’d made the right choice; when she asked if Tom loved her, he evaded. Helen, his mother, saw Mary was sad, knowing her son was not the best husband. Still, the birth of their son brought happiness, even moving Tom at first. But crying babies, nappies, sleepless nights quickly got on his nerves. Mary, exhausted, couldn’t find time to cook anything special, and Tom longed to bolt anywhere. He soon discovered his many flings deserted him. “Who wants a married man?” He never spoke of his wife—she had no education, a simple village girl. “What would she do when our son gets older? I don’t want her working as a cleaner or at the market. It would ruin my family’s reputation. I’ll have to provide alone. Alimony would probably be cheaper.” Tom kept a steady mistress on the side—Kate, with her own flat, money, and no interest in children. He could unwind at hers. Together, they would party, drink, go for weekends away. “Kate, if only you knew how home chaos gets to me. I don’t love my wife, and even our son irritates me. Mary might be beautiful, but she’s so… rural. I can’t take her out anywhere; she knows nothing but the countryside and cows.” Mary realized her dream life with Tom would never come to pass. She guessed he was seeing someone—he’d come home smelling of unfamiliar perfume, lipstick stains on his shirt, snappish with her, ignoring their son, even violent. They’d hoped for more children back in the village, but she confided in her mother, calling from her mobile, only to hear: “We didn’t force you to marry Tom. You made your choice. We expected you’d marry John. Eat your own porridge, then, and when you’ve had enough, come back home—for good…” Mary felt crushed; she even checked Tom’s phone while he slept and found such explicit messages from Kate, she was speechless… She told her mother-in-law, but was met with: “If you’re thinking of divorce, be warned—we’ll fight for custody of your son. You know my husband’s connections. No matter his faults, Tom’s his real dad, has a good income, their own flat. What can you offer? No education, no job, and no money.” Their baby was poorly, teething and feverish, Tom irritated by the crying. Kate was sending messages, waiting for him. He wrote that he’d come once the baby slept and Mary was in bed. Kate replied, “Give them the sleeping pills I gave you—they’ll both sleep in no time.” Tom went for a shower, leaving his phone out. Mary saw the message and was terrified. “What if he does give us sleeping pills? What if he poisons us…” While Tom was in the bathroom, she called John and told him everything. “I’ll come and get you—bring you home.” “But his parents threaten to take my son.” “Don’t worry, they’re just trying to scare you. Try to calm down—for your son too. Let your husband leave, then call me. I’ll wait nearby in the city.” Mary rocked her son until he finally slept, lay down next to him, pretending to sleep. She heard Tom peek in, then leave. She jumped up, packed a few things, rang John, and he arrived at once. He brought her home to his place. Tom returned late the next day to find wife and child gone. He called his parents. “No, Tom, Mary’s not been here. Did she really run off? I’ll call the police,” Helen fretted. “Mum, don’t. Leave it. I’m glad she’s gone, I’m sick of her—and our son. Let her live as she wants. Please, Mum,” he pleaded until she agreed. Time passed. John and Mary married, after her divorce from Tom. They lived in a big house, soon expecting another child. At last, Mary realized John was her happiness.

01

Every Man for Himself — Mum, you can’t imagine what’s happening on the market right now, — Max was nervously rifling through a stack of printouts, first arranging them in a perfect pile, then fanning them out across the kitchen table. — Prices are changing every week. If we don’t put down the deposit now, this flat will disappear from under our noses. Lydia slid a cup of cooling tea towards her son and sat down opposite. The printouts flashed with floor plans, numbers, amortisation charts. A three-bed in a new build, a proper bedroom for Timothy and Sophie, at last, their own rooms. — How much are you short? — Eight hundred and twenty thousand, — Max rubbed his brow. — I know it’s a lot. But Anya is already at her wits’ end, the kids are growing up, and we’re still living hand-to-mouth in rented places… Lydia looked at her son and saw the little boy who once brought her dandelion bouquets. Thirty-two years old, father of two, but the same little furrow between his eyebrows as when, as a child, he fretted over unfinished homework. — I’ve got savings. There’s money in my account. — Mum, I’ll pay you back, I promise. As soon as we’ve settled in, I’ll start putting it aside. She covered his hand with her own, roughened from decades of cooking and cleaning. — Max, it’s for the grandchildren. Don’t talk about paying me back. Family’s worth more than any money. At the bank branch, Lydia filled out the forms in neat handwriting, honed by thirty years as a bookkeeper. Eight hundred and twenty thousand — nearly everything she’d put away in recent years. For a rainy day, just in case, ‘you never know’. Max hugged her tightly at the counter, ignoring the queue. — You’re the best, Mum. Really. I won’t forget this. Lydia patted him on the back. — Off you go, now. Anya’s probably waiting. …The first months after the move blurred into a carousel of cross-city trips. Lydia would turn up with carrier bags from Tesco — chicken, buckwheat, butter, kids’ yoghurts. Helped Anna hang curtains, assemble furniture, scrub builder’s dust from the windowsills. — Timothy, careful with that screwdriver! — she’d call, hanging curtains and teaching her daughter-in-law how to cook cabbage rolls at the same time. Anna would nod, scrolling through something on her phone. Max appeared in the evenings, tired after work, wolfed down his mum’s cooking and vanished into the bedroom. — Thanks, Mum, — he’d toss as he passed. — Don’t know what we’d do without you. …Six months in, a familiar number flashed up. — Mum, listen… Our mortgage payment’s landed on the same day as the car repair. We’re thirty-five grand short. Lydia transferred the money, no questions asked. Young people have it tough, she understood. Adapting to new bills, little ones, stressful jobs. It’s fine — they’ll get back on their feet and pay her back. Or not. Did it matter, when it was family? Years flowed by, faster than water through your fingers. Timothy turned seven, and Lydia bought him a Lego set, the one he’d begged for six months. Sophie twirled in a new dress — soft pink, sparkly, just like her favourite princess in the cartoons. — Granny, you’re the best! — Sophie wrapped herself round Lydia’s neck, smelling of baby shampoo and sweets. Every weekend, Lydia took her grandchildren to hers, or to the theatre, the funfair, the skating rink. She bought them ice creams, toys, books. The pockets of her old coat always bulged with sweets and wet wipes. Five years churned past in this endless, voluntary slog. Money for the mortgage — ‘Mum, we’re really short this month.’ Sick days with the kids — ‘Mum, we just can’t get time off work.’ Groceries — ‘Mum, if you’re going to the shop anyway…’ The thank-yous grew less frequent… …That morning, she was staring at the water marks spreading across her kitchen ceiling. Rusty stains bleeding through the plaster. She’d been flooded; now living there was impossible. She dialled her son. — Max, I need help with the repairs. I’ve been flooded, no idea when I’ll get reimbursed… — Mum, — Max cut her off. — You’ve got to understand, I’ve got completely different priorities now. Kids’ clubs, activities, Anya’s signed up for some course… — I’m not asking for much. Just a hand finding a builder. Or at least… — I haven’t got the time right now, Mum, not for things like that, — Max repeated, as if he hadn’t heard. — Let’s talk about this later, yeah? I’ll call you. Dial tone… Lydia lowered the phone. Her screensaver flickered — a photo from last New Year’s Eve. Her, Timothy, Sophie. All smiling. The money he’d taken without a thought. The weekends she’d given to his kids. That time, that energy, that love — all of it was ‘before’. Now — ‘other priorities’. A cold drop from the ceiling hit her hand… The next day Anna called herself, a rare enough event to make Lydia wary before her daughter-in-law had even spoken. — Mrs Parker, Max told me about your chat. — Anna sounded put out. — You must realise, we all have to sort our own problems. We’re managing our mortgage by ourselves… Lydia almost laughed. The mortgage she’d been paying off every third month. The deposit, made up almost entirely out of her own pocket. — Of course, Anna, — she replied evenly. — Each to their own. — Glad we agree. Max was worried you’d be upset. You’re not, are you? — Not at all. Dial tone… Lydia set down her phone and gazed at it for a long time, as if it were some strange insect. Then she went to the window, but turned away at once — behind the dusty glass there was nothing to comfort her. Nights dragged into endless hours in which the ceiling weighed her down, and her thoughts would not let her rest. Lydia lay in darkness, leafing through the last five years, bead by bead, like a rosary. She’d created this herself. With her own hands, she’d nurtured in her son the certainty that a mother was an inexhaustible resource. In the morning Lydia called the estate agent. — I want to put my country cottage up for sale. Quarter of an acre, Hampshire, mains electricity connected. The cottage she and her husband had built over twenty years. The apple trees she’d planted while pregnant with Max. The veranda where so many summer evenings had been spent. A buyer was found within the month. Lydia signed the paperwork, refusing to let herself dwell on what she was selling. The money arrived; she divided it up: repairs, new savings account, a little set aside for the unexpected. The builders moved into her flat the following week. Lydia picked her own tiles, wallpaper, taps. For the first time in years, she was spending on herself, not on ‘rainy days’ or relatives who might need help. Max didn’t call. Two weeks, three, a month. Lydia kept silent, too. The first call came when the repairs were finished. The new kitchen gleamed, the windows didn’t whistle with draughts, the pipes had stopped leaking rust. — Mum, why haven’t you visited? Sophie’s been asking. — Been busy. — With what? — Life, Max. My own life. She visited the next week. She brought the grandchildren books — good presents, but nothing extravagant. She stayed for two hours over tea, chatted about the weather and Timothy’s schoolwork. Refused to stay for dinner. — Mum, could you watch the kids Saturday? — Max called out as she was getting her coat. — Me and Anna… — I can’t. I’ve got plans. Lydia saw the confusion on his face. He didn’t understand. Not yet. Weeks passed, and understanding came slowly, painfully. Without Mum’s transfers, the mortgage swallowed a third of their budget. Without a free babysitter, the kids were left without anywhere to go. Lydia, meanwhile, opened a savings account at a good interest rate. She bought herself a new coat — proper and warm, not from a clearance rack. Spent two weeks at a spa. Signed up for Nordic walking classes. She remembered how Anna’s parents had always kept a distance. Polite greetings at Christmas, dutiful visits every couple of months. No money, no help, no sacrifice. And no complaints from their daughter. Perhaps they’d always had it right. Rare visits with the grandchildren became a formality. Lydia would come, give modest gifts, chat about school and friends. Leave after a couple of hours, without staying over, not taking the children for the weekend. One day, Timothy asked: — Granny, why don’t you take us to the park anymore? — Gran’s got things to do now, Timmy. The boy didn’t understand. But Max, standing in the doorway, finally seemed to be starting to. Lydia returned to her newly renovated flat, smelling of fresh paint and new furniture. She brewed herself a good cup of tea, sat in a comfortable armchair bought with the proceeds from the cottage sale. Guilt? Yes, it sometimes hit her at night. But less and less. Because Lydia had learned something simple at last: love doesn’t have to mean self-sacrifice. Especially when that sacrifice goes unseen and unappreciated. She chose herself. For the first time in thirty-two years of motherhood…

012

My son spent years searching for the right woman to marry, but I never questioned his choices—until, at 30, he found Emily, who seemed perfect for him. Every day, I heard about how kind and beautiful she was—my son was truly smitten, and I found myself growing fond of Emily as well. He spoke of her virtues with such passion to me and his friends that, when they quickly decided to marry, I wholeheartedly supported his decision as a loving mother. Planning a wedding can be daunting, but my friends pulled it off brilliantly. The bride’s parents were wonderful, and we got along famously from the start. It was blissful at first, but gradually, things changed. Their marriage began to fall apart and conflicts became more frequent. I knew it was only their first year together and believed things would settle down, but I worried—they deserved to be happy. One evening shook me deeply. Late at night, my son arrived at my door with his belongings. He told me he had nowhere to go; his wife had kicked him out. He stayed with me for a few days, and Emily never came by, not even to talk things over. This pattern kept repeating itself. When my daughter-in-law told me she was pregnant, I decided to sit down with them and offer some advice on avoiding future misunderstandings. Unfortunately, my attempt only made things worse. Their disagreements became more frequent, and my son stayed at my place even more often. He was a changed man, no longer the happy person he once was—I could see the disappointment in his eyes. Watching my son suffer in such a toxic relationship was unbearable, so I advised him to consider whether it was worth staying married. He could be a wonderful father even if he and Emily lived apart. Shortly after, he filed for divorce. Not long after, Emily came to me asking for help. She pleaded with me to convince my son to withdraw the divorce petition, as she didn’t want to tear their family apart. I had often encouraged her to nurture her family, but now she was blaming me publicly for interfering and causing the split. Now, I don’t know if urging my son to divorce was the right thing to do. His wife dislikes me, and my son seems to be drifting away from me too. Maybe they still love each other? Living apart is hard, but staying together wasn’t working either.

09

📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

We Love Our Grandchildren Dearly, But We’re Just Too Exhausted to Keep Looking After Them