The children stopped inviting me to see my granddaughter, secretly hiring a nanny to avoid crossing paths with me.
My own daughter refuses to speak to me now. She won’t even pick up the phone. She blames me for her marriage falling apart—though I did nothing wrong. She was the one who begged for my help.
Emily married at eighteen. She met Andrew right after he returned from his military service. Love bloomed fast and reckless. She dropped out of university, spiraling downward, deaf to my warnings. I took them both in, unwilling to see them struggle in rented rooms. At first, things were fine; we even got along after the wedding. Then Emily got pregnant and started snapping at me—my cooking made her sick, she said. I insisted they move out.
Her in-laws and I agreed to help buy them a flat, knowing they couldn’t afford it alone. I tried calling her father, hoping he’d contribute. He just said he’d paid his child support and owed us nothing.
When Emily gave birth, I helped tirelessly. Spent every free moment with the baby so the new mother could rest. Soon, Emily started pretending—inventing illnesses just to dump parental duties on me.
I often sent them off for date nights, cinema trips, even a ten-day holiday alone. I adored babysitting; it never felt like a chore. True, I was exhausted—but what wouldn’t I do for my daughter’s happiness?
When they returned, I suggested Andrew do some renovations. He just lazed about after work, despite his flexible schedule. I brought building supplies and took the baby for two weeks. Even sent over a crew so he wouldn’t overwork. Then came the accusations. Apparently, Andrew resented me “bossing him around.” But what else could I do? He’d never lift a finger otherwise.
After the renovations, contact died. The children stopped summoning me, quietly replacing me with a nanny. Of course, I was hurt—but I invited all the family for my birthday. Only Emily and my granddaughter came. Andrew didn’t even call. It stung. After all I’d done—paid for the flat, the repairs—did I deserve this?
Andrew screamed that I’d suffocated him with demands. Said he was master of his own house and never wanted to see me there again.
Maybe I overstepped, but I meant well. Now Emily and her husband fight constantly. She weeps down the phone, blaming me. Andrew’s talking divorce. I’m barred from my granddaughter—not even allowed to hear her voice.
I lived for them. What do I do now? Why do they hate me so?
