The children stopped asking me to see my granddaughter, quietly hiring a nanny to avoid crossing paths with me.
My own daughter refuses to speak to me now. She won’t even answer my calls. She blames me for their marriage falling apart, though I did nothing wrong—she was the one who begged for my help.
Emily married at eighteen. She met Andrew just after he returned from the army, and before long, they were head over heels. She dropped her studies straight away, set on a reckless path, refusing to listen to a word of my advice. I took Andrew in under my roof to spare them the struggle of renting. At first, all was well, and for a while after the wedding, we got on. Then Emily fell pregnant and began picking fights—my cooking made her ill, she claimed. I insisted they move out.
We struck a deal with her in-laws to help pay for a place for the young couple, knowing they couldn’t manage alone. I tried calling my daughter’s father, hoping he might assist with the housing matter. He said he’d paid his child support and owed us nothing more.
When the baby came, I did everything I could. I spent every spare moment with my granddaughter so the new mother could rest. Soon, Emily began pretending to be unwell, even inventing ailments, just to shift her duties onto me.
I often took the baby so they could go out—cinema, dinners, even a ten-day holiday alone. I loved looking after my granddaughter, so it was no trouble. Of course, I was exhausted, but what wouldn’t I do for my daughter’s happiness?
When they returned, I suggested Andrew fix up their home. He had plenty of time after work yet did nothing but laze about. I brought them supplies, took my granddaughter for a fortnight, even sent over a work crew so he wouldn’t strain himself. That’s when the accusations started. Apparently, Andrew resented me “giving orders.” But what choice did I have when he showed no initiative?
After the repairs, we barely spoke. The children stopped inviting me over, sneaking in a nanny to keep me away. Naturally, I was hurt, but I gathered all the family for my birthday. Emily came with the baby, but Andrew never even called to wish me well. It stung—after all, I’d helped them, paid for the renovations. Did I deserve such treatment?
Andrew shouted that he’d had enough of my interference—this was his home, and he didn’t want me there.
Perhaps I overstepped, but it was all with good intentions. Now my daughter’s marriage is in tatters, and she blames me. She cries down the phone, listing every grievance. Andrew’s talking of divorce. I’m not allowed near my granddaughter—not even to hear her voice.
They were my whole life. What am I to do now? Why do they hate me so?
