*Diary Entry – October 12th*
“Oh, Mum, don’t exaggerate—how much can little Alfie possibly eat? He’s only six! I send you pounds now and then; that should cover him and still leave something for you and Dad,” my daughter replied when I tried to explain that looking after her son was becoming too much for us. This is the story of how my husband and I became full-time grandparents to our grandson—and why it leaves me with such mixed feelings.
**A Grandson in Our Home**
Our daughter, Emily, has lived in France for five years. She left when Alfie was just a year old, hoping to earn quick money and return. But life had other plans—she found steady work, married a Frenchman, and decided to stay. Alfie remained with us in the countryside because she believed he’d be better off here than in a foreign place.
George, my husband, and I didn’t mind at first. Alfie is our only grandchild, and we adore him. He’s bright, full of laughter—a proper little ray of sunshine. But he’s six now, attends nursery, and will soon start school. Keeping up with him grows harder by the day. George and I aren’t as spry as we once were—I’m 62, he’s 65. Between our aches, the garden, and the house, Alfie’s boundless energy demands constant attention, like watching a kettle lest it boil over.
**Financial Help and Reality**
Emily sends money when she can—£100 or £200 now and then. She thinks it covers Alfie’s needs and even helps us. But she doesn’t see how fast it goes: nursery fees, clothes, football club, groceries—it all adds up. And Alfie often falls ill, needing medicine or the GP. We top it up from our pensions, but stretching it all is a strain.
When I tried explaining this, Emily brushed it off. “Mum, honestly, how much can a six-year-old cost? I send you money—shouldn’t that be enough?” I started to say it wasn’t just about costs but time and energy, but she cut in: “You’re his grandparents—this should be a joy for you. I’m working here to give us all a better life.”
**Our Feelings and Doubts**
I don’t mean to grumble, but sometimes it feels like George and I aren’t just grandparents—we’re Alfie’s parents. We take him to nursery, help with his letters, nurse him when he’s poorly, soothe him when he misses his mum. Emily visits once a year, and though Alfie loves her, he calls our place “home.” It stings. I want him with *her*, but I know she can’t take him—not with work and a tiny flat in Paris.
**A Lesson Learnt**
Love isn’t measured in pounds or miles. But neither should it be a burden disguised as duty. Sometimes, the hardest part of loving someone is admitting you can’t do it all.
