“Do you really think just because I’m retired, I’m obliged to babysit your children?” Grandmother refuses to help with grandkids and goes on dates instead.
Does my personal life not matter at this age? The question burns in my mind as I stare at my daughter’s resentful face, demanding I drop everything for her kids. But I won’t sacrifice myself. Not now, when I’ve finally found my freedom.
— Mum, can the kids and I stay with you for a bit? — Emily begged, perched on my sofa in my cosy London flat. Her expression was sour, like she’d bitten into a lemon.
I didn’t turn around. Standing by the mirror, I smoothed cream into my neck.
— And why on earth would you need to stay *here*? — I snapped. — You’ve got a husband, your own place. You chose to have children—should’ve thought about that before popping them out!
— I’m exhausted! I just need to sleep, to rest! You’re retired! — she whined.
— And you’re on maternity leave! — I finally turned, fixing her with an icy glare. — Why do you assume that just because I’m retired, I should be raising *your* children?
— They’re your *grandchildren*! — she fired back.
— They’re *your* responsibility first! Yours and James’! — My patience was thinning. — Go home. Your husband will be back soon, and I doubt you’ve even started dinner.
— I never see him! — Emily’s voice cracked into a shout. — He works two jobs, comes home, and crashes! It’s all on me—kids, the house, cooking! He could manage for a week without me, but *I* need a break! I just wanted to sleep in, not cook, and you could’ve helped!
— Need me to call you a cab, love? — I asked flatly. — The kids are fed. Just put them to bed and make your husband a proper meal.
— Fine, I’ll do it myself! — She snatched her phone, summoning a taxi as she gathered the children. — Some grandmother you are! Everyone looks after their grandkids, but *you*? Too busy chasing men in your sixties? Disgusting!
I exploded.
— How *dare* you speak to me like that?! — My shout sent one-year-old Lily wailing, while three-year-old Max stumbled back. I soothed them quickly, then hissed, — I raised you and Oliver *alone*! Your father ran off with another woman, left us for her brood. Oliver manages just fine—never once dumped his kids on me! And *I* never guilted *my* parents, even when they lived down the street!
Emily drew breath to argue, but the taxi buzzed—her ride had arrived. “Go on, then! Run back to your precious husband, since you hate your grandkids so much!” she spat before slamming the door.
I returned to the mirror. Time to wipe off the cream and apply my makeup—I had a dinner date soon. I knew what I was doing. Twenty years in a beauty salon had taught me a hard-earned resilience. Oliver was born in ’91, Emily in ’97. Before she turned one, I discovered my husband was expecting a child with another woman. No arguments, no excuses—he packed his things while I was out and vanished. Then another woman. Then another, each left with a baby. Child support was a joke. My parents had warned me against marrying Daniel, so pride kept me from asking for help. At least I kept the flat.
Oliver started school; Emily only went to nursery at three. A friend saved me—smuggled in high-end cosmetics, and I’d juggle Emily while hustling door-to-door sales in the mornings, then rush to fetch Oliver by afternoon. When my parents learned of the divorce, they scolded me for hiding it but offered money. I refused—I’d handle it myself.
Soon, I landed a cleaning job at a salon. My makeup knowledge impressed the owner, who urged me to train properly. I took courses—became her right hand in no time. Oliver grew up, married, has two kids now, though they’re stuck with a mortgage. When my parents passed, their house went to Emily—Oliver didn’t contest it. “Let her have it,” he’d said, “just don’t put James on the deed.”
At 57, I had a mini-stroke. Recovered, but it was a wake-up call—no more grinding. I quit, took private clients if I fancied. The salon owner understood. Now, at 61, I’m retired, dating Michael—a divorced man my age with grown kids. He has his own place; we’re not rushing to move in. But the sparks? They’re real. After a lifetime of dead-end romances, I’ve earned this.
But *Emily*—married at 19, two kids straight after. *Her* choice, though James suggested waiting. Now she moans, “Mum, I’m *tired*, you’re retired, take the kids!” Did she think motherhood was a picnic? James works two jobs, leaves at dawn, returns at night—and she’s *furious* she can’t sleep till noon. The entitlement!
At dinner with Michael, Emily called. Nearly half ten—alarmed, I answered.
— Mum, I’ve been thinking—how can you be so *selfish*? Your love life over your grandkids?! I’m beside myself! You *threw* us out, didn’t even offer to *help*! Prancing about with men at your age—what’s *wrong* with you? — Her rage choked her words.
— Did you make James dinner? — I asked coolly. — Or just microwave some frozen rubbish?
— What does it *matter*? — she shrieked.
— He’s breaking his back for you and those kids, and you can’t even cook a proper meal? —
— Who do you care about more—*me* or your precious son-in-law?! — she sneered.
— *Him* and the children! — I cut in. — My fault, I suppose—too busy working to notice I’d raised a lazy, selfish girl. They’re suffering because of *you*! Don’t call me again unless it’s an emergency, and *never* expect me to parent your children so you can laze about!
The line went dead. Michael shifted awkwardly.
— Not my place, but… wasn’t that a bit harsh?
— Michael, who’s *really* being cruel here? — I sighed. — Since when must grandmothers abandon their lives for grandkids? No. If I failed raising her, I’ll correct it now. Pity? No. I don’t pity her at all.