Why do you assume that just because I’m retired, I’m automatically on call for babysitting? Grandmothers aren’t obliged to look after grandchildren—some of us still have lives!
Does personal happiness expire with age? That’s what I ask myself as I stare at my daughter’s sulking face, demanding I drop everything for her kids. But I won’t sacrifice myself—not now, when I’ve finally found freedom.
“Mum, can the kids and I stay with you for a bit?” whined Emily, perched on my sofa in my cosy flat in central Manchester. Her expression was sour, as if she’d bitten into a lemon.
I didn’t even turn around. Standing by the mirror, I smoothed cream into my neck. “And why would you need to stay here? You’ve got a husband and your own place. You chose to have kids—you should’ve thought it through!”
“I’m exhausted! I need a proper rest! You’re retired now!” she moaned.
“And you’re on maternity leave!” I spun around, fixing her with a cold stare. “Since when does being retired mean I’m your on-demand nanny?”
“They’re your grandchildren!” she snapped.
“They’re *your* children first! Yours and Daniel’s!” I was losing patience. “Go home. Your husband will be back soon, and I’ll bet you’ve done nothing to prepare.”
“I barely see him!” Emily shrieked. “He comes home from two jobs and collapses into bed! The kids, the house, the cooking—it’s all on me! He could manage without me for a week, but *you* won’t even help. I just wanted a break—to sleep in, not cook, just breathe!”
“Need me to call you a cab, love?” I asked flatly. “Feed the kids, tuck them in, and make your husband a proper meal.”
“Fine, I’ll do it myself!” She fumbled with her phone, bundling the children together. “Some grandmother you are! All my friends’ mums help out, but you’re too busy chasing men at your age. Shameless!”
That set me off. “How dare you speak to me like that!” My shout made little Sophie burst into tears, and three-year-old Oliver flinched. I soothed them before hissing, “I raised you and James alone! Your father ran off with another woman, left us to fend for ourselves. James manages his kids just fine—he doesn’t dump them on me! And *I* never burdened my parents, even when they lived down the road!”
Emily drew breath to argue, but her cab pulled up. “Off you go, then! Clearly, men matter more than your own family!” she spat, slamming the door behind her.
I returned to the mirror. Time to wash off the cream and redo my makeup—I had a dinner date at The Ivy. I know what I’m doing. Twenty years in a beauty salon taught me that much.
My life wasn’t easy. James was born in ‘91, Emily in ‘97. Before she turned one, I found out my husband was expecting a child with someone else. No arguments, no apologies—he packed his things while I was out and vanished. Then came another woman, then another, each left with a baby. Child support? A fantasy. My parents had warned me not to marry David, so asking them for money felt humiliating. At least I kept the house.
James started school; Emily only got into nursery at three. My best friend saved me—she brought high-end cosmetics, and I’d rush around clients in the mornings, toddler in tow, then collect James in the afternoons. When Mum and Dad learned I’d divorced, they scolded me for keeping quiet but helped with money. I refused at first—stubborn pride.
Soon, I got a job cleaning a beauty salon. My knack for cosmetics impressed the owner, who urged me to train properly. I qualified in makeup and nails, became her right-hand woman. James grew up, married, has two lovely kids—though they’re saddled with a mortgage. When my parents passed, their house went to Emily. James didn’t argue. “Let her have it,” he said, “just don’t put Daniel’s name on the deed.”
At 57, I had a mild stroke. Recovered, but it was a wake-up call—I quit the grind, taking only private clients. The salon owner understood. Now, at 61, I’m retired and seeing Michael, a divorced bloke my age with grown kids. He’s got his own place; we’re not rushing to move in. What matters is the spark between us. After a lifetime of failed flings, I’ve earned this.
But Emily? Married at 19, two kids right after. Her idea—Daniel suggested waiting. Now she wails, “Mum, I’m shattered! You’re retired—just take them!” Did she think parenting was a picnic? Daniel works two jobs, out by 7 AM, home past 9 PM, and she’s furious she can’t lie in till noon. The selfishness!
Over dessert, my phone rang—Emily, half-past ten. Worried, I answered.
“Mum, I’ve been thinking—how can you be so selfish? Your love life over your own grandkids?! I’m beside myself! You threw me out without a second thought! What kind of woman brings men home at your age?” She was practically hyperventilating with rage.
“Did you cook Daniel a decent meal?” I asked calmly. “Or was it frozen pizza again?”
“What’s it to you?!” she screeched.
“He’s breaking his back for you and those children, and you can’t even feed him properly?”
“Who do you care about more—me and the kids, or your precious son-in-law?” she sneered.
“Him and the children,” I shot back. “My mistake was working so hard I didn’t notice I’d raised a lazy, self-centred brat. They’re the ones suffering. Don’t call me again unless it’s an emergency—and forget about dumping them here for your ‘break’!”
I hung up. Michael shifted uncomfortably. “None of my business, but… don’t you feel bad for her?”
“Michael, who’s hurting whom?” I sighed. “Since when are grandmothers obligated to surrender their lives? If I failed as a mother, I won’t repeat it as a grandparent. Feel sorry for her? Not a chance.”
