**Saturday, 12th November**
I won’t be visiting the children on weekends anymore.
I’m an elderly woman, seventy-two years old, and what I see in my family breaks my heart. It’s painful, it’s sad. So I’ve made a difficult but firm decision: no more weekend trips to see my grandson Alfie. I’m tired of feeling like an unwelcome guest in their home. If they want to see me, they can come to me. I won’t humiliate myself by begging for moments that clearly matter only to me. My heart aches, but I can’t go on like this—it’s time to respect myself, even if it means being alone.
For years, I lived for my family. I raised my son, William, gave him everything I could. When he married Emily, I was pleased—she seemed kind, clever, capable. And when Alfie was born, my only grandchild, it felt like a new purpose. Every weekend, I’d take the bus across town just to spend time with him. I’d bring treats, bake his favourite apple tarts, play games, read stories. Alfie’s six now—bright, curious—and I thought these visits meant something to all of us. But over time, I noticed things changing.
It started a couple of years ago. William and Emily became distant. I’d arrive, and they’d be too busy—on their phones, glued to their laptops. “*Mum, keep Alfie occupied, we’ve got things to sort,*” William would say, leaving me with him while they handled their “*urgent*” matters. Emily wouldn’t even offer me tea—just, “*Margaret, the tarts are in the kitchen if you want one.*” *My* tarts? The ones I’d baked for *them*? Now I was being handed them like a stranger? I bit my tongue, not wanting to argue, but every moment like that cut deep.
The final straw was last month. I arrived as usual on Saturday, arms full of treats. Alfie ran to hug me, but Emily gave me a look and said, “*Margaret, you should’ve called ahead. We’ve got plans—we’re off to the shopping centre with Will.*” Plans? Was I never part of them? I offered to take Alfie so they could go alone, but William waved me off. “*Don’t fuss, Mum, just watch him. We won’t be long.*” *Long?* They were gone five hours. I kept Alfie entertained, made him lunch—because their fridge was bare. When they returned, not a word of thanks. Just Emily shrugging, “*Oh, you’re still here? We thought you’d left.*”
I went home and sat in my old armchair, staring at a photo of Alfie and me building a snowman, and I cried. Why do I feel so disposable? I’ve tried so hard to be a good mother, a good grandmother, and now I’m treated like unpaid help. I remember when William and I were close—when he’d call just to share his dreams. Now he doesn’t even ask how I am. Emily isn’t cruel, but her coldness is withering. I realised: I can’t keep doing this.
The next day, I phoned William. “*Will, I won’t be coming on weekends anymore. If you want to see me—if Alfie does—you know where I live.*” He floundered. “*Mum, don’t be like this. Alfie loves seeing you.*” *Loves it? Do you?* I didn’t argue. Just repeated, “*My door’s open, but I won’t chase you.*” Emily, when she heard, just scoffed. “*Suit yourself, Margaret.*” That was it. No effort to understand.
Now my weekends are silent. I miss Alfie’s laughter, his endless questions, how he’d tug my sleeve: “*Granny, read to me!*” But I won’t beg to be where I’m not wanted. I’m not young anymore—my heart flutters, my knees ache—and they never considered how hard it is for me to trek across town with bags in hand. My neighbour, Mrs. Harris, said I did the right thing: “*Let them come to you for once.*” But it doesn’t ease the hurt. I miss my grandson. I miss my son. I even miss Emily, frosty as she is.
Two weeks have passed. No one’s come. William called once, asking if I’d changed my mind. “*You’ve got my address, Will,*” I said. He mumbled something about being busy and hung up. Alfie, I’ve heard, asks why I don’t visit. Emily tells him, “*Granny’s resting.*” *Resting?* I lie awake worrying about him! But I won’t back down. I deserve respect, not to be treated as an on-call babysitter. If they want family, they’ll have to show it.
Sometimes I wonder—was I too harsh? Should I have endured it, for Alfie’s sake? But then I remember their indifference, and my resolve returns. I won’t be the grandmother they remember only when they need something. I want to be part of their lives, not hired help. My door’s open. The kettle’s on. There are tarts in the oven. But the next move is theirs. I’ll wait—however long it takes. Or perhaps I won’t. Maybe it’s time to learn to live for myself, even if the loneliness is unbearable.
