**Do you really think retirement means I have to raise your children? Grandma won’t babysit—she’s going on dates.**
Does my age mean my life no longer matters? The thought crossed my mind as I stared at my daughter’s sullen 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?”* Emily pleaded from my sofa in my cosy London flat. Her face was pinched, like she’d bitten into a lemon.
I didn’t turn around. Standing at the mirror, I smoothed cream over my neck.
*”And why on earth would you stay here?”* I snapped. *”You’ve got a husband. A home. You chose to have children—you should’ve thought about that before having them!”*
*”I’m exhausted, Mum! I just want to sleep. You’re retired—you’ve got time!”*
*”And you’re on maternity leave!”* I finally turned, my voice icy. *”Since when does retirement mean I’m your live-in nanny?”*
*”They’re your grandchildren!”* she shot back.
*”They’re* your *children, Emily. Yours and James’s!”* My patience was thinning. *”Go home. Your husband will be back soon, and God knows you’ve probably done nothing for him.”*
*”I barely see him!”* Her voice cracked. *”He’s working two jobs, comes home shattered. Everything’s on me—kids, house, cooking! He could manage a week alone. Just let me stay here, sleep in, take a break while you watch the kids!”*
*”Should I call you a cab, love?”* My tone was flat. *”The children are fed—just put them to bed. Make your husband a proper dinner.”*
*”Fine, I’ll call one myself!”* She snatched up her phone, bundling little Sophie and Oliver toward the door. *”Some grandmother you are! Other grannies help—mine’s too busy chasing men in her fifties! How selfish!”*
I snapped.
*”How dare you speak to me like that?”* My shout sent one-year-old Sophie wailing, three-year-old Oliver stumbling back. I hushed them, lowering my voice. *”I raised you and Daniel alone! Your father walked out, got himself another family. Daniel manages just fine without dumping his kids on me. And I never guilted my own parents, even when they lived down the road!”*
Emily drew breath to argue, but the cabbie rang—her ride was outside. *”Fine, go chase your men if you hate your grandkids so much!”* she spat, slamming the door behind her.
I returned to the mirror. Time to wash off the cream, apply my makeup—dinner reservations at eight. I knew what I was doing. Twenty years in a beauty salon, a life of struggle. Daniel was born in ‘91, Emily in ‘97. Before she turned one, I found out my husband had gotten another woman pregnant. No excuses—he packed his things while I was out and vanished. Then another woman, another child. Child support was a fantasy. I was too proud to beg my parents for help—they’d warned me not to marry Richard. At least the flat stayed mine.
Daniel went to school; Emily started nursery at three. My friend saved me—supplying high-end cosmetics, which I sold door-to-door mornings, clutching Emily, collecting Daniel afternoons. When my parents learned I was divorced, they scolded me for keeping quiet but offered money. I refused. I’d manage alone.
Soon, I landed a cleaning job at a beauty salon. My makeup knowledge impressed the owner—she urged me to train. I took courses, mastered my craft, became her right hand. Daniel grew up, married, has two kids—though they’re saddled with a mortgage. When my parents passed, their house went to Emily—Daniel refused it. *”Let her have it, just don’t put James’s name on the deeds.”*
At 57, I had a minor stroke. Recovered, I decided—no more grinding. Quit the salon, took private clients when I chose. The owner understood. Now, at 61, retired, I’m seeing Michael—a divorced man my age, grown kids of his own. He’s got his place; we’re not rushing to move in. But there’s fire between us, and for the first time, I’m happy. After a lifetime of dead-end romances, I’ve earned this.
But Emily? Married at 19, two kids straight after—her idea, though James wanted to wait. Now she whines: *”Mum, I’m knackered, you’re retired, take the kids!”* Thought motherhood was easy? James works two jobs, leaves at dawn, home by nine, and she’s furious she can’t lie in. Selfish.
At the restaurant, Michael across from me, Emily called. Nearly half-ten—alarmed, I answered.
*”Mum, I’ve been thinking—how can you be so selfish? Your love life matters more than your grandkids? I’m beside myself! You threw me out, didn’t even offer to stay! What kind of grandmother brings men home?”* She was breathless with rage.
*”Did you cook James dinner?”* I asked coolly. *”Or was it microwave lasagne again?”*
*”What’s it to you?”* she shrieked.
*”He’s breaking his back for you and those children, and you can’t even make a proper meal?”*
*”Who do you care about more—me and the kids, or your precious son-in-law?”*
*”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 forget about dumping them on me for a ‘break’!”*
The line went dead. Michael shifted awkwardly.
*”Not my place, but… don’t you feel guilty, being so harsh?”*
*”Michael, who’s harsh on whom?”* I sighed. *”Since when is a grandmother obliged to abandon her life for grandchildren? No. If I failed raising her, I won’t fail her now by indulging this. Guilty? No. I don’t feel sorry for her at all.”*