The inlaws turn up at our cottage, and I hint that they could take their daughter and grandchildren back, but they fling their hands about in denial. I hear the gate shut behind my daughterinlaw, yet I pay it no mindshe likes to wander off alone, without the kids. My husband and I have grown used to feeding the grandchildren, playing with them and even tucking them into bed, because the young couple are either out running errands or taking a nap.
When she fails to return for the night, I start to panic.
Son, wheres Evelyn? I cant get hold of her! I say.
Dont worry, Mum, shes gone to rest, my son replies.
What time is it? She should be back by now, I press.
Shes off in the hills with her friends, he answers calmly.
He stays relaxed while my heart pounds. How can she say nothing at all? What kind of attitude is this?
Later a deeper realization settles over me, and I cant find peace. When my son married Evelyn, they were both about twenty. Ian moved in with Evelyn because they were both single, yet she still wanted a husband of her own. I had no objections.
Soon they have a baby, then a second. Thats when everything begins to shift. Ian brings the grandchildren to our house in a pram, goes about his business, and in the evenings Evelyn arrives, the kids come, we all have dinner together, and then they head back to Evelyns place.
For me, playing with the grandchildren is a joy; they dont visit often, and Evelyn lives on the far side of the villageshe cant just pop over. But now the visits become regular, then nightly when it rains or snows. My husband and I are simply thrilled.
I make sure the children have food, take them for walks so the young parents can nap in the afternoon, help with washing and laundry. One day the kids announce theyre moving in with us, and I feel a surge of triumph. Im the best granny, the best motherinlaw; the children appreciate me.
George, my husband, travels for work across the UK, earning a decent wage in pounds. I keep the house running. Cooking, cleaning, and even looking after a small garden are no trouble for me; Ive always managed everything myself.
But now, at my age, Im getting tired. The children have picky appetites; each needs a separate meal, and Evelyn often has errands that leave the kids in my care. How can I scold her? She isnt my child. I start urging Ian to ask her to wash her own dishes and tidy up, because Im exhausted.
Mum, Evelyns expecting another baby. She cant use our kitchen; the smell is too strong. She didnt want to tell you, but could you tidy up a bit? She cant even stay there for a minute, she says.
A chill runs down my spine. Another baby? George and I are already running on fumes; the older grandchild wakes at dawn, watches TV in our sitting room, and stays there until the late hours. Evelyn, meanwhile, feeds the younger one and sleeps, while David, our other grandson, stays at home.
Son, the children need to be near you, I tell Ian.
Well need new furniture; theres no space left. Could you move to the kitchen and let us turn your bedroom into a nursery? he suggests.
I stare in disbelief. Our cottage has two rooms, a pantry, a corridor, and a tiny kitchen.
How will we fit all of us? The sofa is already stretched thin; theres barely room to step, Ian protests.
Then dont complain if David falls asleep on the couch, I retort.
Soon a cot appears in our bedroom for the grandchild. Hes constantly moving between his parents bed and ours, and we spend sleepless nights listening to his cries, waking with a headache that feels like a mountain.
The inlaws visit again, and I hint that they could take their daughter and grandchildren back, but they wave their hands dismissively.
They lived with us for five years, and youve only been here a year, so dont count on us, they say.
I realize again that something isnt right, but where can I turn? The daughterinlaw never helped when there were only two children; she always found a reason to avoid looking after them, claiming she was out walking, while everyone was glued to their phones and we were working in the garden. Now she wont bend a knee, take a child in her arms, or cookeverything meets with a reaction.
She has even gone away on a road trip, refuses to answer the phone, and tells only my husband whats happened. We worry; the grandchildren miss their mother, yet she doesnt call, claiming shes resting.
Son, who is looking after the children? I ask.
Me, he replies.
Ah, you, I say, and my vision blurs. Fine, feed them and put them to sleep.
Ian doesnt know what the children like or how they fall asleep, so I tell George:
This is the limit of my patience; I wont lift a finger any longer.
We sleep in the kitchen to avoid disturbing Ian. In the morning his mood is sour, but I pretend not to notice. The children ask for toast, then chicken, and I point to the fridge:
Everythings in there; cook it, since youre acting as the wife now.
Two days pass. Ian calls Evelyn, begging her to come back because he cant manage alone. She arrives, bringing a bright mood.
So I had to travel all the way here? You cant fry an egg or boil some pasta? she shouts, loud enough for George and me to hear.
She rushes to the kitchen, banging pots, while the fridge sits empty.
Where are the groceries? she demands.
Did you buy them? I ask.
Are you sparing me eggs? Or potatoes? she snaps.
No, Im not sparing anything. Get the chickens fed, collect the eggs, go to the shop and fill the fridge, she orders, then scoops up the children, tells their mother shell never set foot in our house again. Ian rages at us, saying his inlaws treat him badly.
All the while the children never ask how theyre being fed, never thank us for the meals, never buy anything they like.
Is this the payment we receive for our kindness? I rub my templeswhy is my generosity met with such treatment? Ive done everything out of love; why do they behave like this? What do you think?
