Left Grandchildren with Grandma for a Getaway—Returned to Find Two Dead Kids: ‘I Never Imagined She Could Do This to Her Own Grandbabies…’

**Diary Entry**

Ill never forget the day we came back from Brighton. Three days awayour first break in yearsjust me and my husband, James. Wed left our two little ones, Lily (6) and Oliver (4), with my mum, Evelyn. She was 68, a retired midwife whod always doted on them. Id had my doubts latelyher forgetting where shed put her glasses, telling the same stories over and overbut James said I was overthinking. Your mum adores those kids, hed reassured me. Theyll be fine.

The house was too quiet when we stepped inside. No excited shouts of Mummy! Daddy! No little feet pattering down the hall. My stomach twisted. I dropped my bag and rushed to the living room.

There they were. Lily and Oliver, lying still on the sofa, their faces pale as marble. I screamed, shaking them, begging them to wake up. James froze in the doorway, his face crumbling. Call 999! he shouted, voice breaking.

The paramedics came quickly, but it was too late. My babies were gone. The world caved in. And there, in the kitchen, sat Mum, sipping tea with shaky hands.

What happened? I demanded, voice raw.

She looked up, her eyes distant. They were crying I gave them some of my sleeping tabletsjust a littleso theyd rest. I didnt mean

I didnt let her finish. You killed them!

The investigation was swift. The toxicology report confirmed it: an overdose of Mums insomnia medication, crushed into their juice. Shed thought a small amount would help. But their tiny bodies couldnt take it.

At the police station, Mum kept repeating, I never meant to hurt them. I love them more than anything. Every word was a knife. The Crown Prosecution Service charged her with manslaughter by gross negligence. Her lawyers argued dementia had clouded her judgment. Neighbors testified about her forgetfulnessleaving the kettle on, wandering the street confused.

The trial was agony. I clutched a photo of Lily and Oliver, my hands trembling. James sat beside me, his jaw clenched. The jury found her guilty, sentencing her to five years in a secure care facility.

Our home became a mausoleum. Lilys drawings still hung on the fridge; Olivers toy cars littered the floor. I couldnt bring myself to touch them. The guilt was relentless. *Why did I leave them? Why didnt I listen to my gut?*

James tried to stay strong, but grief tore at us both. Counselling didnt help. We blamed each other, ourselves. The community held candlelit vigils, but no amount of sympathy could mend what was broken.

Mum wrote letters from the facilityapologies, regrets. I see their faces every night, she scribbled. I couldnt read them. The pain was too much.

Years later, I stood at their graves in the churchyard, the wind biting my cheeks. I thought she loved you, I whispered. I thought you were safe.

The papers ran stories, sparking debates about elderly care and dementia. But for me, it wasnt a discussion. It was my life, shattered.

And every night, when I close my eyes, I hear Lilys laugh, Olivers chatterghosts of the future we lost.