**Diary Entry, 14th October**
My name is Margaret Whitmore, and I’m sixty-two years old. I live in Manchester and have one son, Thomas. A few years ago, he married a girl named Eleanor—seemingly lovely, from a decent family. As his mother, I kept my distance. They had their own lives, their own rules. At first, we only met at Christmas or Easter. I never intruded, never gave unsolicited advice. I was just happy my son had found someone.
When their first child, Emily, was born, I offered to help. Eleanor looked exhausted, dark circles under her eyes. After my shifts, I’d go over, watch the baby so she could rest. She never asked—I volunteered. It was no trouble. After all, she was my granddaughter, my own flesh and blood.
Eleanor’s mother, mind you, rarely lifted a finger. She’d drop by every few months with a box of biscuits, stay an hour, then leave. No nappies, no late nights, no real help. But I bit my tongue. Maybe she had health problems, maybe work kept her busy. I didn’t complain.
Then came their second daughter, Charlotte, and things got harder. Eleanor was overwhelmed, especially towards the end of her pregnancy. So I stepped in—walking Emily, cooking, washing up, ironing tiny clothes. And then… they asked the impossible.
Eleanor was due back at work. The girls had no one to watch them. Do you know what they suggested? That I take unpaid leave—”go on granny duty,” as Eleanor put it—to look after them full-time. At first, I refused. But Thomas pleaded until I relented.
For a year, I was their nanny. I nursed them through fevers, lost sleep, cooked, washed, played, and paid for groceries out of my own pocket. I was exhausted, but I carried on. Family helps family, or so I thought.
Then I mentioned my flat needed repairs—peeling ceilings, wallpaper coming loose. I asked Thomas and Eleanor to chip in, just a bit. Their response? *”We’ve two children now, Mum, we can’t spare it.”* 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?”*
Eleanor stared at me like I’d spoken gibberish. *”Why should I thank you for that? They’re your granddaughters. It’s your job.”*
It felt like a slap. I stood there, stunned. And what about her mother, the one who’d never lifted a finger? Why was *she* never held to account?
That day, I decided enough was enough. No more being their default babysitter, no more scrubbing stains out of tiny socks or reading bedtime stories till my throat was raw. I’m a grandmother, not a maid. I have my own needs, my own life.
Now I see the girls only when *I* choose. Thomas came later, apologising, saying Eleanor hadn’t meant it, that it was just stress talking. But the damage was done.
I’ll save up for the repairs myself. Let them figure things out on their own now. Perhaps one day Eleanor will learn gratitude isn’t weakness—it’s respect. And without respect, there’s no real family.
**Lesson learned: If generosity is met with entitlement, it’s time to draw the line.**
