It's been a year since my daughter's family moved out. Sometimes I no longer see any meaning in life. Even in my worst dreams, I would never have believed it would come to this. We lived in a multi-generational house, with my daughter and her husband living upstairs and me and my son, who had moved back in after a separation, living on the ground floor.
On our days off, we had breakfast together in the garden or had barbecues. When Sarah* became pregnant five years ago, I was over the moon. I reduced my workload so that I could look after the baby, and bought dresses and toys. I was so happy!
The blow came after the birth: a brief message, saying that everything else would follow over coffee. Three weeks later, I was invited for coffee – three weeks! I was kept at a distance. If I was allowed to look after my grandson, it was only when accompanied by someone else. Everything was scrutinised, commented on, criticised: the way I changed nappies, fed the baby, rocked him to sleep.
It continued like this when I started babysitting: I wasn't allowed to look after the little one in my flat because there was a television there . My son-in-law, who was at home for a longer period of time after an accident, constantly interfered.
My daughter said I should stop trying to make up for what I missed out on with my children by spoiling my grandchildren.
At some point, I realised: what was the point of babysitting? In two years, I wasn't even allowed to do anything with the little one. When his sister was born, I tried to get my daughter to do things with me. But everywhere we went, there was either too much sun, junk food or excitement. My daughter told me to stop trying to make up for what I had missed out on with my children by spending time with my grandchildren. The atmosphere became increasingly tense, and she cut short chance encounters in the stairwell: «Granny doesn't have time.»
I wrote a letter to my daughter. In it, I apologised for my past mistakes: that as a single parent, I had worked so much and had so little time, that I had paid more attention to Sarah's brother, who had problems as a teenager, than to her, who had always been a high achiever. I also expressed my hurt feelings. At first, the letter brought about a change. We had a heart-to-heart talk.
My daughter told me to stop apologising for mistakes she had never blamed me for. I hadn't done anything wrong during her childhood. What annoyed her was interference, such as my concern that something was wrong with her son because he wasn't talking at the age of two. The time after the letter was a relief: I was even allowed to potter around in the garden with my grandson, just the two of us. But the next scandal was not long in coming.
Having a loving family is all I ever wanted – perhaps too much so.
Now I don't even know where my daughter lives. The loss of my grandson – I hardly got to know his sister – weighs almost heavier on me than the break with her. Our distance has made a few things clear to me. That I was a mother hen, for example. I did too much for my children: cleaning their cars without being asked, changing their tyres, always wanting to pay for everything. I was intrusive, I realise that now.
A sense of duty proved fatal
I wanted them to be happy. My childhood home was loveless; we had to fight for everything, otherwise there would be consequences. Having a loving family is all I ever wanted – perhaps too much so. I try to practise what I find difficult in interpersonal relationships: talking about what is on my mind . That's not easy when you've been brought up to keep quiet.
I have a strong sense of duty and am used to taking matters into my own hands, as that's what was expected of me at home. I think that's what ruined things with my children – I took charge of everything and then was disappointed when I had to do it all myself.
It breaks my heart when I see people with their grandchildren. I write letters to mine, which I keep with my will. I want them to know that I thought about them every day. I attend a support group for abandoned parents. It helps not to be alone with my pain.
I am sharing my story in the hope that others will talk about theirs. Otherwise, we miss out on the chance to learn from each other, find support and move forward together. I hope that this opportunity will also arise for my daughter and me at some point.
*Names changed by the editors
