“Why on earth should I thank you? They’re your granddaughters!” — my daughter-in-law shattered every bit of goodwill between us.
My name is Margaret Whitmore. I’m sixty-two and live in Manchester. I have one son—James. A few years ago, he married Eleanor. She seemed a decent girl, from a good family. As a mother, I kept my distance—they had their own lives, their own rules. At first, we only saw each other on holidays. I never interfered, never offered unsolicited advice. I was just happy my son was content.
When their first daughter, Lucy, was born, I offered to help. I remember how exhausted Eleanor looked, dark circles under her eyes. After my shifts, I’d come over and watch the baby so the young mother could rest. Eleanor never asked—I volunteered. It was no trouble. After all, she was my granddaughter, my own flesh and blood.
Eleanor’s mother, incidentally, was in no rush to lend a hand. She’d pop by every few months, drop off a box of chocolates, and leave within the hour. No nappies, no sleepless nights, no real help. But I held my tongue, not wanting to upset Eleanor. Maybe her mother couldn’t manage—health issues, work, who knew? I swallowed my words.
When their second daughter, Emily, arrived, things got harder. Eleanor was struggling, especially toward the end of her pregnancy. So I was there every single day—taking Lucy to the park, cooking, washing dishes, ironing tiny clothes. And then… then they asked the impossible.
Eleanor was due back at work. They had no one to watch the girls. And do you know what they suggested? That I take unpaid leave—”go on granny leave,” as my daughter-in-law put it—so I could care for the children while they worked. At first, I refused. But James, my son, pleaded until my heart gave in. So I agreed.
For an entire year, I looked after my granddaughters. Sometimes they’d drop them off sick—fevers, coughs. Nights without sleep, days spent entertaining, feeding, walking them to the park, washing, nursing. I spent my own money on groceries. I ran to the chemist myself. I was exhausted… but I kept going, believing family meant helping one another.
Recently, I mentioned needing repairs. My flat was falling apart—peeling ceilings, wallpaper coming loose. I asked James and Eleanor for a little help, not the full cost, just something. And they said:
*”We’ve got two kids, Mum. We can’t. Money’s tight.”*
I couldn’t hold back:
*”I spent a whole year helping you, feeding your children out of my own pocket! Can’t you spare anything now?”*
Then Eleanor looked at me like I’d lost my mind and said:
*”Why should I even thank you for that? They’re your granddaughters. You’re supposed to do it!”*
It felt like a slap. I stood there, stunned. And what about Eleanor’s mother, the one who’d never lifted a finger—wasn’t she also a grandmother? Why was *she* never expected to help?
That day, I made a decision. I wouldn’t be their on-call nanny anymore. I wouldn’t take the girls when they were ill. I wouldn’t cook stews, scrub laundry, or read bedtime stories till midnight. I’m a grandmother, not a housemaid. I’m a person, too. With my own needs, my own wishes.
Now I see my granddaughters only when *I* want to. James came by later, apologising, saying Eleanor spoke out of turn, that she didn’t mean it. But it doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve had enough.
I’ll save up for the repairs myself. Let them figure things out on their own. Maybe one day Eleanor will realise gratitude isn’t weakness—it’s respect. And without respect, there’s no family at all.
