“Oh, Mum, don’t exaggerate! How much can our little George possibly eat? He’s only six! I send you pounds now and then—surely that’s enough for him and even for you and Dad,” replied my daughter when I tried to explain how difficult it had become for my husband and me to care for her son. This is the story of how we became “full-time grandparents” to our grandson, and why it leaves me with such bittersweet feelings.
**Our Grandson in Our Home**
Our daughter, Emily, has lived in France for five years now. She left for work when George was barely a year old. At first, she planned to earn quick money and return, but life had other plans—she found steady employment, married a Frenchman, and decided to stay. She left George in our care, believing the countryside would be better for him than a foreign land.
My husband, William, and I didn’t object. George is our only grandchild, and we adore him. He’s cheerful, curious, a real ray of sunshine. But he’s six now, attends nursery, and soon will start proper school. Keeping up with him grows harder by the day. William and I aren’t young anymore—I’m 62, he’s 65. We’ve our own aches, the garden, the household chores. And George? He’s lively, needing watchful eyes at every turn.
**Financial Help and Harsh Truths**
Emily sends us money now and then—£100 or £200 when she can. She believes it should cover George’s needs, even ours. But she doesn’t see how fast it vanishes. Nursery fees, clothes, shoes, football lessons, groceries—none of it comes cheap. And George falls ill often, needing medicines and doctors. We dip into our pensions, but stretching it all is becoming a strain.
I tried speaking to Emily, explaining how draining it was, both physically and financially. “Mum, honestly, how much can a six-year-old eat?” she replied. “I send you money—it should be plenty.” When I hinted it wasn’t just about food but time and strength too, she brushed it aside. “You’re his grandparents—isn’t this a joy for you? I’m working here to give us all a better life.”
**Our Feelings and Doubts**
I won’t complain, but sometimes I feel we’ve become more than just grandparents to George—we’re his parents in all but name. We take him to nursery, check his schoolwork, nurse him when he’s ill, comfort him when he misses his mum. Emily visits once a year, and though he’s always thrilled to see her, he calls William and me “home.” It stings—I wish he could be with her. But I understand she can’t take him to France, not with work and scarce lodgings.