I thought long and hard about whether to tell this story. It’s embarrassing, painful, and hurtful. But perhaps it would have been even more painful to remain silent. Because what happened that day was not just a crack — it was a real earthquake within my family.
Every morning I got up at 6:30. I made myself some tea, tied my hair back in a bun, put on some comfortable trousers, and an hour and a half later I rang my daughter’s doorbell. She opened the door sleepily, sometimes with her laptop under her arm — her work tasks followed her even into the bathroom. I would enter the house and carefully take the baby, who still smelled of milk and morning warmth. From that moment on, my personal ‘working day’ began, only without a salary, days off, or lunch.
But I didn’t complain. I loved every minute: his funny grunts, his soft palms, the way he fell asleep on my shoulder. I thought I was doing a great thing — supporting a young mother so that she wouldn’t break down, get tired, or burn out. I thought my daughter understood this. That she appreciated it. That she saw it.
How deeply I was mistaken.
That day was like any other: a walk, nappies, laundry, feeding again. I managed to get everything done, even though my back ached and my legs were buzzing. When we got home, the baby fell asleep right away, and I felt my stomach growl treacherously. I hadn’t eaten anything since morning. And, to be honest, I didn’t hesitate for a second — of course, I could have a piece of cheese and an apple. I’m part of the family here. I take care of her child and her home.
And then, imagine, I’m standing by the fridge, not even having had time to close the door, when I hear my daughter’s voice behind me. Cold as ice from the freezer:
‘Don’t you dare take anything from the fridge.’
At first, I thought it was a joke. She couldn’t be serious. But her face was stone-cold — no smile, no confusion. Just irritation, as if I had broken some strict rule.
I was confused.
‘But… sweetheart… I’m here all day. What am I supposed to eat then?’
She didn’t even look at me.
‘Buy it yourself. This isn’t a café.’
And she left. She just walked away, as if she hadn’t said anything terrible.
I stood there, holding the apple in my hands. It suddenly became as heavy as a cobblestone. And inside, something seemed to fall, break, and ring.
At that moment, for the first time, I felt like a stranger in the house where I had come without a second thought.
And then a thought came to me that frightened me: I had to teach a lesson. A quiet one. A calm one. But one that would be impossible to forget.
And I taught it.
But was I right to do so? Sometimes I wake up at night and think: what if I crossed the line?
To be continued in part two.
After that conversation, I drove home in a daze. People around me were going about their lives: someone was laughing on the phone, someone was arguing with the bus driver, teenagers were squealing at the door, pushing each other. And I sat there, clutching my bag as if it contained not a pack of wet wipes, but my heart, which had just been trampled on. I looked out the window and thought: did my little girl really say that? My gentle, delicate, sensitive daughter, whom I raised with love and care?
But if I continue to put up with everything, it will not be care, but slavery. And I decided: I will not go tomorrow at eight. I will not call. I will not remind her. I will not explain.
Let her figure it out for herself.
The next morning, I got up out of habit — my body was still living on a schedule. I made tea, but I didn’t feel like drinking it. The house seemed too quiet. And for the first time in many months, I felt that I had the right to… just sit. Just do nothing.
But the silence didn’t last long.
At 8:03, the phone exploded with calls. ‘Daughter’ flashed on the screen, as if angrily demanding an answer. I didn’t pick up the phone. I even got scared — it was the first time I had ever done this. At 8:10, she wrote: ‘Where are you?’ Then again: ‘Mum, hello?’ — and then: ‘Are you sick?’
And that’s where the farce began.
At 8:15, a message came from my son-in-law: ‘Aren’t you coming today?’
At 8:20, a sudden audio call came from his mother, whom we politely greeted twice a year: ‘What’s the matter with you? You promised to help!’
And me? I was sitting in the kitchen, eating the half apple I had brought home yesterday, and smiling for the first time in a long time. Not maliciously — no. Just… calmly. Because at that moment I felt that my hard work had finally been noticed. It was no longer taken for granted.
By nine o’clock, my daughter was already calling every three minutes. I could hear the tears in her voice:
‘Mum, please… I’m running late. I have a meeting. The baby is crying. I’m sorry if I said something wrong… Just answer me!’
And that’s when my heart skipped a beat. Because I’m not a monster. I’m a grandmother. I love this boy so much that I was ready to endure everything every day — sleepless nights, tantrums, heavy bags. But I couldn’t be humiliated.
I finally wrote:
“I can’t today. I need to think about yesterday. You’re right: you don’t have a café. That’s why I’m not obliged to be a free servant. Please find a babysitter for today.”
A minute later, a short reply came:
‘Understood.’
Three minutes later, another:
‘We’ll manage on our own.’
But in the voice message that arrived half an hour later, it was impossible to hide the panic:
“Mum… I can’t cope. I’m sorry. Just come back. We’ll talk…
And I realised that the lesson had begun to work.
But the real conversation was still ahead.
When I finally arrived at my daughter’s house in the evening, I was greeted by a strange silence. Not the cosy kind you hear when children are asleep, but an anxious, tense silence, like before a storm. My daughter opened the door herself. Yes, the same one who had coldly said yesterday, ‘This is not a café.’ But now she looked like a squeezed lemon — pale, dishevelled, with red eyes.
‘Come in…’ she said quietly, as if afraid that a loud sound would ruin everything again.
I went in and saw that the whole flat was in complete chaos. Toys were scattered on the floor, an empty bottle lay in the pram, and in the kitchen stood a frying pan, which she seemed to have been trying to hold, shake and calm the child with at the same time. The baby was hanging in her arms, crying hysterically.
And then something completely absurd happened — I hadn’t even had time to take off my coat when the child saw me, reached out his arms to me, and instantly stopped crying. My daughter looked at him, then at me… and sobbed:
‘He even prefers you…’
I put my hand on her shoulder:
‘He prefers a calm adult. It’s not your fault. You’re tired.’
She cried, hiding her face in her hands. Real, deep tears. The kind that had been building up for a long time.
‘Mum… I’m sorry,’ she said. “I… I didn’t think… I just… I’m tense all the time. I run, I stumble, I fall, I run again. I’m under pressure at work, everything is falling apart at home… And when you took the food yesterday… it wasn’t about the food. It was about the fact that I feel like I have no control over anything. Even the fridge isn’t mine.
And suddenly it became clear to me: she wasn’t taking it out on me… but on her own exhaustion.
But that didn’t take away the pain. So I said what I had to say:
“I understand everything. But you need to remember one thing: I am your mother, not your housekeeper. And if you ever raise your hand against my dignity again, I will leave. Not because I’m offended. But because it’s not right.
She nodded, still sniffling.
‘I’ll never do it again… Mum, really… I love you so much. I’m just afraid of being a bad mother.’
I hugged her. For a long time. Truly.
‘You’re not bad. You’re just learning. Just please don’t learn at my expense.’
We talked for a long time — about fears, about work, about how she is sometimes afraid to ask for help because she wants to appear strong. I told her how I sometimes felt useless. She told me how she felt inadequate. And suddenly we both saw how much we had left unsaid and how much fatigue had built up between us.
And then she did something I didn’t expect.
She went to the fridge, opened it and said:
‘Mum… there’s a shelf here. It’s yours. Always. Take whatever you want. No need to ask permission.’
And for some reason, that’s when I started crying. Not out of hurt. But out of relief.
Because I realised that we had both grown up. And we had both taken a step towards each other.
Now I come to help with the baby again — but no longer as a shadow, but as a person who is valued. And, you know… sometimes the biggest discord in a family can start with a piece of cheese. But so can reconciliation.
