Now, they were scrambling.
Sam had to sell his dirt bike, and Alice sold all her designer handbags to afford their child’s daycare.
My husband and stepson think I should reconsider for Ellie’s sake. “Sam’s the problem,” they argue. “Why punish Alice and Ellie for his behavior?”
One night, during a heated family dinner, my stepson took a jab at me.
“If this were your own daughter’s child, you’d forgive and move on.”
The room fell silent. I set down my fork, hands trembling.
“How dare you,” I whispered, tears stinging my eyes. “How dare you suggest I love any of my grandchildren less than others.
I’ve poured my heart and soul into this family for decades. I’ve loved your children as my own. But love doesn’t mean accepting abuse.”
“Mom’s right,” my daughter Sarah spoke up, her voice fierce.
“You all saw how Sam treated her. How Alice enabled it. Would you let someone treat your mother that way?”
My stepson’s words stung, but they weren’t true.
I’d always treated my stepkids and biological kids equally. The difference was respect. My own kids and their spouses respected me.
But Alice and Sam didn’t.
Ellie eventually returned to daycare, and I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. I could finally enjoy my time with my other grandkids without Sam’s negativity hanging over me.
One morning, while watching my grandson paint, he looked up at me with serious eyes.
“Grandma,” he said, “why doesn’t cousin Ellie come anymore?”
My heart clenched. “Sometimes, sweetheart, grown-ups have disagreements that make it hard to be together.
But that doesn’t mean we love Ellie any less.”
“Me too, baby,” I whispered. “Me too.”
Alice and Sam are learning the hard way that free childcare isn’t a right — it’s a privilege.
So, am I wrong for refusing to keep watching Ellie? Maybe.
But respect is a two-way street. If they can’t appreciate the help they’ve been given, they’ll have to figure it out themselves.
Last week, I saw Alice at the grocery store. She looked tired and stressed.
Our eyes met across the produce section, and for a moment, I saw my little girl again — the one who used to run to me with skinned knees and broken hearts, trusting me to make everything better.
But I’m not that kind of bandage anymore. To all the Sams and Alices of the world: grandma isn’t a free nanny.
