23rd April, 2024
My name is Margaret Whitmore, and I’m sixty-two years old. I live in Manchester with my cat, Mr. Whiskers. My only son, Thomas, married a girl named Emily a few years back. She seemed decent enough—good family, polite. As his mother, I kept my distance. They had their own life, their own rules. At first, we only saw each other at Christmas or Easter. I never interfered, never offered advice unless asked. I was just glad my boy was happy.
When their first daughter, Isabelle, was born, I offered to help. Emily looked exhausted—dark circles under her eyes, barely keeping it together. After my shifts at the pharmacy, I’d pop round to hold the baby so she could rest. She never asked; I volunteered. It wasn’t a bother. She’s my grandchild, my flesh and blood.
Emily’s mum, mind you, was nowhere to be found. She’d drop by once in a blue moon with a box of biscuits, stay for a cuppa, then vanish. No nappies changed, no late-night feeds. But I bit my tongue. Didn’t want to cause a fuss. Maybe she had her reasons—health, work, who knows? I let it slide.
Then came their second girl, Lillian, and things got harder. Emily was struggling, especially toward the end of her pregnancy. So I stepped up—walked Isabelle to nursery, cooked meals, did the washing up, ironed tiny dresses. And then… they asked for the impossible.
Emily was due back at work. They had no one to watch the kids. Their solution? Asked me to take unpaid leave—to “go on granny duty,” as Emily put it—so they could keep their jobs. I refused at first. But Thomas pleaded with me, looking so desperate I caved. I agreed.
For a whole year, I was their default babysitter. Sick children with fevers, coughs—all dumped on me. Nights without sleep, days running after toddlers, cooking, cleaning, dosing out Calpol. I paid for groceries out of my own pocket. Walked to Boots in the rain for medicine. I was knackered. But I carried on because I believed family helps family.
Then last month, I mentioned my flat needed repairs—peeling wallpaper, a leak in the ceiling. Asked if they could chip in, just a bit. Thomas sighed. “Mum, we’ve got two kids. We’re stretched thin.”
That’s when I snapped. “I’ve spent a year looking after your girls, feeding them on my pension! Can’t you help me just this once?”
Emily stared at me like I’d sprouted horns. “Why should I thank you? They’re your grandchildren. It’s your job to help.”
Felt like a slap. I stood there, gobsmacked. And what about her mother, the one who couldn’t be bothered? Isn’t she a grandmother too? Why does she get a free pass?
That night, I decided: no more. No more being their on-call nanny. No more sick days, no more scrubbing spaghetti off the walls. I’m their grandmother, not a bloody maid. I’ve got my own life—my own needs.
Now I see the girls when I choose. Thomas came round later, said Emily didn’t mean it, that she was stressed. Too late. The damage is done.
I’ll save up for the repairs myself. Let them sort their own mess. Maybe one day Emily’ll learn gratitude isn’t weakness—it’s respect. And without that, what’s family even for?
