I stopped giving my daughter money—and suddenly, she stopped inviting me over. It’s been a year since I’ve seen my grandson.
I’m a pensioner now. And now that I can no longer help financially, it seems I’ve become useless to her. My daughter doesn’t invite me, doesn’t visit, and I’ve been shut out of my grandson’s life. It’s painful to realise that all this time, maybe I was nothing more than a wallet to her. I only ever wanted to give her the things I never had.
I started working young, right after my daughter was born—alone, without her father. He vanished almost the moment he found out I was pregnant. Said he couldn’t handle the pressure, the responsibility, and just walked away. Meanwhile, I was left holding a baby. I worked myself to the bone—three jobs, scrubbing floors at night, sewing at home by day. Then I moved abroad. Worked myself raw, all so my little girl would never want for anything.
When she was four, I left for the Czech Republic. Five years in a foreign country, coming back only a handful of times, but I sent money every month—not just for food and clothes, but to fix up her grandparents’ flat where she lived. I missed her desperately, but I told myself—this was how I’d survive.
By the time I came home, she was nine. I thought we’d make up for lost time, that we’d grow close—after all, everything I did was for her. We spent more time together—I dragged her to clubs, helped with school, celebrated her every little victory. I convinced myself we had a real bond. Only now do I see—it was just an illusion.
At twenty-three, she got married. By then, she already had a small flat—I’d put that one-bed in her name when she was still in school. After the wedding, the newlyweds moved in. Her husband, to put it kindly, wasn’t exactly driven. Worked half-heartedly, never had enough money. So I kept helping—monthly transfers, groceries, clothes, medicine. When my grandson was born, my costs tripled. Everything for the baby—pushchair, cot, nappies. His father’s parents refused to chip in. “You chose to have a child—now deal with it yourselves,” they said.
But I couldn’t abandon them. I helped—emotionally, financially. I visited often, they dropped by mine. Sometimes I caught a flicker of discomfort from my son-in-law, but he never said a word. I kept my opinions to myself—I didn’t want to break them up. It was her life, her choice.
Years passed. My daughter returned to work after maternity leave. My grandson started nursery, and still, I kept helping—birthday presents, club fees, household expenses. Then the pandemic hit. My firm downsized. I couldn’t keep up—age, health, exhaustion. I retired for good. I warned my daughter I couldn’t financially support them anymore, but I’d happily help in other ways—pick my grandson up from nursery, babysit in the evenings.
“Okay, Mum,” she said. And then—she vanished.
Since then, she doesn’t visit. Doesn’t call. When I ring, her answers are clipped, distracted. Occasionally, I get a voice message for Christmas. A year’s gone by. In all that time, I haven’t seen my grandson once. Not for his birthday, not for school plays, not even for a walk in the park.
I tried showing up unannounced. A few times, I stood on their doorstep with cake or a book for him. They’d open the door—”Oh, we’re busy right now,” or “Maybe later, yeah?” Never outright cruel, but never welcoming either. My daughter isn’t rude. But it’s clear—my presence is an inconvenience.
Now I understand—I was only needed when I was useful. When I paid. Now? It’s like I no longer exist. Like my very presence reminds them of a time they needed me. And now that they’re “independent,” they’d rather forget.
I keep asking myself—where did I go wrong? I tried so hard, worked so much, loved so fiercely. All for her. But maybe—maybe I tried too hard. Maybe I spoiled her.
I still love my daughter. And my grandson. But my house is silent now. And my heart—shattered.
