**Diary Entry – 12th March 2024**
Sometimes I feel like I’m not living in reality, but in some absurd play. My son, a grown man, acts like a boy again, letting others make decisions for him. His fiancée is the director, orchestrating their lives, while I stand backstage—always with my wallet ready, expected to step in. The trouble is, my patience wears thinner by the day.
They’ve lived together from the start, even before the wedding. At first, my son stayed with me in my house, while his future wife rented a room with a friend. When marriage came up, they got a flat together. I kept my distance—let them build their lives as they saw fit. I helped with money when asked. We’re not wealthy, but I understood—they’re young, struggling. I’ve been there myself.
But what I can’t wrap my head around is their latest idea—having a child. Now. No stable jobs, no home of their own, no savings. Just bold declarations: “A baby won’t wait,” “She can’t leave it past thirty,” “It’ll all work out.” And as usual, my son nods along without hesitation. I look at him and barely recognise him. Where’s your sense, son? Where’s your backbone? Why do you keep letting someone else steer your life?
He works, yes, but in a job where wages might be delayed or cut without warning. He’s switched jobs five times, if not more. Always something: a bad boss, a failing company. His fiancée earns pennies. And yet, they’ve already moved flats twice. Just the two of them—fine. But with a newborn? The chaos, the sleepless nights, the never-ending bills—who’ll bear that weight?
I tried reasoning with them. Wait a few years, settle into careers, save up, get secure—then think of children. No. The decision’s made. She’s in a hurry. And my son, hypnotised, just says, “Yes, of course.” So I’m to prepare not just to be a grandmother, but a second mother? Helping is one thing—but I’m not getting younger. My resources aren’t endless.
What if they can’t manage? What if, months in, they can’t pay rent or afford nappies? Who’ll step in? Me. Because I couldn’t turn my own son and grandchild away. And that terrifies me. I’m already stretched thin—my own bills, my health. I’m not made of steel.
His fiancée just smiles and says, “We’ll manage somehow.” As if it’s a weekend outing, not raising a child. My stomach knots—why won’t they think it through?
I’m no enemy to children. I’d love to spoil a grandbaby, read them stories. But I want that child to grow in warmth, in security—not chaos and debt. I want them to know their parents can provide, not rely on Grandma to pick up the pieces.
Looking at them, I think: wait two years, and it could be different. Find better jobs, save up, rent a decent place—maybe even get a mortgage. Isn’t that how sensible people live? But in their world, it seems you leap first, then hope someone catches you.
I stay quiet. My words would go in one ear and out the other. But deep down, I’m already bracing myself—for sleepless nights, tighter budgets, responsibility I never asked for but will carry. Because when children come, the older ones sacrifice. Love isn’t just joy—it’s surrender. And all I can wish is that someone in this chain finally grows up.
