My daughter and her husband left me with the grandchildren for the entire holiday break. And here I am, on my pension, expected to feed and entertain them.
Modern children and grandchildren have become so selfish—constantly demanding attention, care, and time, yet giving nothing in return but indifference and demands. What is this entitled attitude towards the elderly? As if we have no lives of our own, no desires—just endless babysitting like some unpaid servant. But the moment I ask for help, suddenly everyone’s too busy, as if I’m nothing to them.
My daughter has two boys—twelve and four. I live in a quiet village near Cambridge, and all I have is my modest pension and the peace I cherish. I don’t know how my daughter and her husband are raising them or what goes on at school, but the boys are turning into utter slobs. They leave everything in chaos—clothes strewn about, beds unmade, as if a tornado tore through. And the food! They turn up their noses at my cooking, demanding junk instead. Absolute punishment!
When they were little, I helped my daughter tirelessly—chasing after them, fussing over them, running errands. But for the last five years, since my retirement, I’ve tried to step back from being the eternal nanny. This autumn, when I checked the calendar and saw no half-term break in November, I sighed in relief. “Good,” I thought, “they won’t go anywhere. I’ll finally have some peace.” How wrong I was.
That Sunday, just before half-term, the doorbell rang. I opened it—there stood my daughter, Emily, with her boys. Before I could even say hello, she blurted out, “Mum! Take the boys, holidays started!”
I froze. “Emily, why didn’t you tell me? What kind of surprise is this?”
“If I warned you, you’d make excuses!” she snapped, yanking coats off the boys. “Robert and I are off to a spa—we’re exhausted!”
“But—what about work? There’s no extra holiday this year!” I stammered, panic rising.
“We took unpaid leave. Mum, no time—we’re late!” She pecked my cheek and bolted out, leaving me with two suitcases and two wild children.
Within minutes, the house was bedlam. The telly blared, shoes and jackets littered the hallway, and the boys rampaged like a storm. I begged them to pick up after themselves, but they ignored me—as if I didn’t exist. When they wrinkled their noses at my stew, demanding pizza instead, I snapped.
I grabbed the phone. “Emily, your children want takeaway! I’m not buying them rubbish!”
“Already ordered delivery,” she dismissed, irritated. “Mum, they won’t eat your food—it always causes a row. Take them out, do something fun!”
“And with what money? My pension?” My face burned.
“What else do you spend it on? They’re your grandchildren—not strangers!” She scoffed and hung up.
And that was that. Left alone with this nightmare. I slaved my whole life for my only daughter—worked double shifts, pinched every penny—so she’d want for nothing. And now, in my old age, this is my thanks? I’m shaking with fury, with helplessness, with the sheer unfairness of it.
I love my grandchildren—deeply. But they tire me, and I them—the gap between us is vast. I’m not young enough to keep up. Yet my daughter treats me like free labour, as if my pension and my time belong to her. Theirs are the rights; mine, only duties. Selfish—utterly selfish! And as I stand here, staring at the wreckage, listening to their shrieks, one thought chills me: Is this really what my golden years are meant to be? Have I earned nothing better?