I Looked After My Grandchildren for Free, but My Daughter Sent Me a List of Parenting Criticisms — …

I remember those days as if gazing through a slightly fogged-up window on a winter morning, the sunlight hazy and shy. Looking back, I realise how patterns of family and duty wove togetherand unraveledin my own English story.

It must have been ten years ago now, before the twins started school, when I began spending my days with them. Nothing formal, just helping out my daughter, Sarah, and her husband, David, so they could keep up with their careers in London and their mortgage on the semi-detached in Barnes. Mum, youre a lifesaver, Sarah had gushed in those early days, when Id handed in my retirement papers from the accountancy office, closing the book on forty years with ledgers and numbers. We couldnt possibly hire a nannystrange coming and goings, not to mention the cost.

It seemed natural then, and I even felt a little important. I pictured taking Jack and Oliver on long walks by the Thames, reading them Winnie-the-Pooh in a sunbeam, kneading pastry for apple crumbles. In reality, my alarm rang at six, and Id ride the District Line with an army of commuters, sandwiches already in my bag, to arrive before Sarah and David bolted out the door for work. All the daily runningsfrom ballet slippers to dentist appointmentslanded in my lap. Jack was a boisterous five, Oliver temperamental at three, constantly declaring, I do it myself!

But the memory that stands out is of a certain drizzly Tuesday afternoon in February. Id just set the boys at the table with a handful of ginger snaps Id picked up from Sainsburys, when Sarah breezed in, late again, laptop under her arm, brushing wet hair from her face.

Mum, she nearly hissed, not those biscuits again! We agreed, didnt we? Only oatcakes from that health shop on High Street. She rattled off something about sugars and food colouring as if Id just given the boys gin and tonics instead of tea and a biscuit.

They were hungry, Sarah. They hardly touched the fish pie, and the carrot sticks were a lost cause…

They need slow-release carbs, not a sugar rush before bed! she snapped, glancing at her watch as if the motorway delays were all my fault. Right, Ive got to dash. David will be home by eight. Please, make sure they finish the speech therapy sheets. And no screensIll check the iPads history myself.

When the front door finally swung shut, a cloud of her perfume and tension lingered. My bones ached, and I sank onto the chair, remembering a time when sorrow and gratitude shared gentler boundaries.

It was meant to be a kindness, this arrangement. Let us take care of you, Anne, David had reasoned. No more squeezing onto the bus in the cold, and Jack and Ollie get their grandmother instead of a stranger.

I had thought, naively, it would be like being a storybook granny: parks, stories, sticky fingers, chubby cheeks. But it felt more an unpaid internship, with ever-shifting expectations. My days started before sunup, shepherding the boys through every task while their parents built futures elsewhere. I became the unseen scaffold that held up the tower.

That weekend, my one oasis for a hot bath and an extra hour in bed, Sarah called. Her voice was rigidly bright. Mum, we need a family meeting. Come for Sunday lunch. Something important.

My heart fluttered as I turned up that Sunday, a cheese and onion tart in handDavids favourite. But when I entered, the mood was as cold and formal as the weather outside. The boys were sent to the sitting rooman unusual privilegewith Peter Rabbit playing low on the TV. We adults gathered at the large table, Sarah with her leather-bound planner, David at his laptop.

Mum, Sarah began, a little high-pitched, weve reviewed the last half-year, and we think its time to professionalise the way the boys are brought up. There are patterns that need addressing.

David spun the laptop round, Excel tables glaring at me with tidy columns and coloured graphs. Its nothing personal, Anne. We just want to optimise the process.

Sarah walked me through her notes. First, food. You consistently give them treats outside the agreed rota: your tarts, sausages, those biscuits. Its important to stick to the meal plan on the fridge.

But they wont eat the beetroot wraps or the vegan sausages, Sarah, you know they wont

Thats how children develop palates! she interjected, already marking something down. Next, bedtime. Last Wednesday, you put Oliver down at half-past eight, not eight. It disrupted his sleep cycle.

I remembered that night vividly. Oliver rubbing his sore tummy, clinging to me while I sang him Hushabye Mountain.

Third, learning, Sarah pressed on, Jack still confuses his colours in English! You arent using all the phonics flashcards I bought, are you? Early intervention is crucial, Mum.

I gave her a hard stare. Hes five, Sarah. Dont you think a spot of laughter and climbing trees is learning enough? We count conkers in the park, you know.

Nature walks are outdated. And, most crucially: discipline. Youre too soft. They dont listen to us anymore. You need to be firm, Mum. Time-outs, consequence charts.

The word unprofessional appeared, slicing through my calm like a cold wind under the door.

Then David added, This week well introduce a rota and key performance indicators. If we dont see improvement, well look into extra tuition. We just hoped youd be enough, Anne.

I sat in silence, looking at my cooling tart, realising all my sacrifices had been reduced to points on a spreadsheet.

After a long, brittle silence, I surprised myself. My voice came out clear, not shaky at all. So, what is thisa list of grievances?

Sarah bristled. Not grievances, Mum. Areas for growth. We want childcare to be structured.

I stood, gathering my resolve from somewhere deep, the place that once helped me balance the books under the old managing directors beady stare. I see, and I agreea professional arrangement deserves professional boundaries. Shall we talk pay?

David gave a startled laugh. Surely not, youre their grandmother!

No, David. A grandmother drops in with lemon drizzle and fairy tales. They arent handed lists of demands and performance targets. You require a nanny, a cook, a housekeeper12 hours a day, five days a week. At an agency, thats £15 an hour minimum. Thats £900 a week. Or about £3,500 a monthbefore overtime or batch cooking for everyone.

David said nothing, just mumbled into his phone.

Grandma, OAP, or hired helpyou have to pick one, I said. If you want lists, reviews and targetsthen hire someone and pay her. If you want me as their grandmother, Ill visit, bring jam tarts, spoil them senseless, and leave in time for Songs of Praise.

Sarah burst out, How can you talk of money, Mum? Were family! I thought you did this out of love.

I looked at the family portrait on the wall. Of course I love them. Thats why for two years, I ignored my own pains, skipped buying my raincoat so Jack could have that wooden train set, spent nights mopping your kitchen floor instead of reading my book. But if you see me as failing KPIs, then youd better start recruitingbecause, as of now, I resign.

For a moment, their faces crumpled in disbelief. You cant mean that, Sarah whispered.

But I was already donning my coat. Send the rota to my email, David. Until then, good luck. And the cheese tart is for youenjoy it.

That night I watched the moon from my own kitchen window, the lights of the high street shimmering beyond the rain-specked glass. I made the rarest luxury: a pot of herbal tea, a toasted crumpet, and watched the telly in peace, my phone switched firmly off.

The following week brought a flurry of messages, missed calls, pleas and guilt trips disguised as concern. David even rang to say, Surely you dont mean it, Anne? Think of the boys.

My doctors told me to take it easy, David. Ive booked the hairdressers, then Im off to see my friend Margaret at the matinee. Im sure youre managing.

Thats exactly what I did. I found a new dress, reclaimed my Wednesdays for bridge and trips to Kew, and realised how much brighter the world looked when I was rested.

Rumours from their end of London trickled through: they took time off in shifts, then hired a nanny from an agency.

A month later, on a wet Sunday, I turned up as promised. The house was chaosboots everywhere, laundry on the stairs, Jack and Oliver screaming with delight as I walked in.

Grannys here! shrieked Jack, almost knocking me over with a hug.

A stern-looking womannew, unfamiliaremerged from the kitchen. Jack, Oliver, no running! Now, back to the playroom, she barked.

Hello, Im their grandmother, I managed.

Helen Barnes. Agency nanny, she replied briskly. No coddling during study time. Our schedule is tight and non-negotiable.

Sarah slunk out, dark circles under her eyes. Tea, Mum? she muttered. Helen, can you…

Thats not in my duties. Im here for the children only. Teas your business. And you still owe me for staying late last Wednesday.

David fidgeted at the breakfast bar. The whole atmosphere buzzed with tension.

In a rare private moment, I whispered to Sarah, Is she nice to them?

Shes got an Oxbridge reference and costs us more than our car payments, she sighed. She speaks French, but the boys are terrified of her.

David interjected, Eighteen hundred a month, plus lunches. She made us switch to artisan bakery for her sandwiches.

I couldnt help myself. Sounds like your system works perfectly.

Sarah blinked away tears. Mum, this is a nightmare. Olivers had night terrors. Jack keeps asking for you. Shes banned even educational telly. Im scared to sack herweve already been through two. She keeps threatening to go to her union. Were overdrawn.

I could see how close Sarah was to breaking. But old patterns run deepI would not simply swoop in and erase the lesson. If you always patch carpets, folk never mend their ways.

I gave her a tissue. Experience is expensive, but its how we learn.

Davids voice wobbled. Mum, please, will you come back? We took you for granted. Were sorry. No more listswe beg you. Just keep them happy.

Sarah nodded desperately. Anythingjust tell us how it should be.

I sipped my tea, quietly unfolding the terms Id written beforehand. Ill mind the boys Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, nine to six. No overtime. Mondays and Fridays are minedentist, allotment, whatever. Evenings and weekends belong to you. For others, call a sitter.

Deal! David said, almost in tears himself.

And my rules are my own. If I think a ginger biscuit is in order, they have one. If they want to read Beatrix Potter, well do so. If you criticise, Ill walk out. Granny isnt unpaid staff, and the housework is yours, not mine.

Of course, Mum. Well even get a cleaner, Sarah managed to laugh.

Right, then, I said as Helen stalked in, purse in hand, demanding her termination fee. David paid her, probably thinking it money very well spent.

The boys, released from strictness, flew at me with glee. Granny, can we bake cakes?

In two days, my dearsTuesdays for crumbles. Today is Grannys Sunday, just come for cuddles.

That evening, David put me in a well-sprung cab, Sarah pressed a bag of posh biscuits into my hand, and they waved as though I was departing for South Africa, not South West London.

As the cab crawled over the Albert Bridge, I gazed at the city lights, feeling lighter than I had in years. There would always be struggles; children would always test boundaries, and responsibilities would gather like English clouds. But now, Id drawn my own soft line across their world and mine. They would remember: love is strongest when given freely, not demanded as a service.

Sometimes you must step away to show your true worth, and to teach that boundaries, just like love, are best respected when theyre mutual. And those spreadsheetsbest left in the office. A grandmothers wisdom, after all, has never needed a tally sheet.