**Diary Entry – 12th October**
The autumn leaves in Winchester were turning gold, but inside me, a storm raged. I’ve never dared speak ill of my mother-in-law, Margaret. She’s practically a saint—how could anyone say a bad word about her? Yet in my heart, oh, the curses I muttered weren’t half as harsh as the ones I stifled. How could I not, when she pulls stunts like this?
Here’s the latest mess I’m still reeling from.
Margaret was on leave. Lovely, isn’t it? Her daughter and son-in-law jetted off for a fortnight to Spain. Splendid! But they left their kids—six-year-old Oliver and four-year-old Charlotte—with Granny. Fine, these things happen.
We live in Margaret’s cottage on the outskirts of Winchester. Our son, Alfie, is barely ten months old. And why am I so “grateful” to this “kind” woman who’s “always helping”? Oh, she helps, all right—just never without dumping the chaos onto someone else.
On Saturday evening, my sister-in-law flew off. By Sunday morning, Margaret’s boss called, begging her to cover a shift. Not an order, a plea: “Margaret, we’re desperate!” And what does she do? Agrees without a second thought! Only later did she learn her colleague broke her leg and three others were on leave—no one else could cover. She even preened about it: “I’m utterly indispensable!” Not a word about the fact I’d now be stuck with the kids she’d promised to mind.
I don’t mind helping occasionally. If asked, I’ve always been happy to take Oliver and Charlotte to the park. But that doesn’t mean I dream of spending entire days wrangling someone else’s toddlers! I’ll manage, sure, but what about safety? They scatter toys everywhere, and Alfie shoves everything in his mouth. Charlotte’s forever handing him tiny bits, and he nearly chokes. I can’t look away for a second! Margaret couldn’t care less. She works till eight, comes home, showers, cooks herself dinner, and collapses. Exhausted from work, apparently. And me? Three kids all day—must be a breeze, right?
Yesterday, she “casually” mentioned her eldest grandson, twelve-year-old William, would be visiting this weekend. His parents are off to see his mum’s relatives. I reminded her I planned to take Alfie to my parents’ cottage—maybe even stay the week. Cue the meltdown. First, she didn’t grasp it, then exploded: “You’ll either come back the next day or take them with you!”
“Are you mad?” I snapped. “Where would I put them? They’re not my children!”
I suggested the other grandparents take them. William’s old enough to stay home alone. But Margaret threw such a fit the walls shook. Ranted until I nearly packed up and left that very night—but it was already eleven.
It’s not that I can’t handle them. I know how to keep them busy, what to feed them. But why should it fall to me? Why must I scrap my plans to bail out Margaret, who overpromises and bolts the moment work calls?
And my husband, James? Away on business till October—of course, he’s on my side. Fat lot of good that does when I’m alone against Margaret.
I know what some will say: “You’ll need help one day too. It’s not that hard!” Yes, if I ask, I’ll be grateful. But only if I’m asked—not saddled with someone else’s children like a broken suitcase! I’m not a nanny, not hired help. I’ve my own family, my own child, my own plans. Why must I drop everything for her grandchildren?
What would you do if your mother-in-law dumped her grandkids on you the moment work came calling?
**Lesson learned:** Kindness shouldn’t mean being taken for granted. Set boundaries—or risk drowning in someone else’s chaos.
