I’m Lorena, and I’m retired. When my daughter-in-law first approached me, she asked if I could look after their three children “now and then.” I was happy to help. I love my grandchildren, and I genuinely want a significant role in their lives. However, what began as occasional babysitting quickly escalated into a demanding, expected, unpaid caregiving role that completely swallowed my retirement.
The escalation was subtle at first. I’d arrive, and before I could even settle in, I’d notice heaps of dirty laundry piled on the couch and stacks of dirty dishes filling the sink. Every visit became a race between watching the children and cleaning up after their parents. I hadn’t signed up to be their unpaid housekeeper. I had traded decades of work for peace and freedom, not for a new, unpaid job.
I reached my absolute limit and finally told my son and his wife that I could no longer continue with the current arrangement. My daughter-in-law screamed that I had utterly let them down and, worse, that I was selfish.
The accusation stung, but I stood by my boundary. I realized they only valued my time when it was free, so I decided to make them understand what my time was truly worth.
A few days later, they booked their next big night out and, assuming my compliance, told me I was babysitting. I initially agreed, letting them finalize their plans. But then, a few hours before they were supposed to leave, I called. I used an excuse I felt justified in making, telling them my old knee was suddenly acting up badly and I simply couldn’t physically manage the children that night. I spent the entire evening peacefully baking and indulging in a long, hot, well-deserved bath.
The following week, they tried to schedule me again. This time, I blamed a dodgy meal for making me feel unwell. Instead of rushing to their messy house, I happily caught up on all my favorite soaps.
Later that same week, my son called me, and he was angry. He was furious about having to hire expensive emergency sitters and complained that his wife was completely beside herself with rage. I told him calmly and directly that he needed to sit down, work out exactly what my time and labor are worth, and then discuss that number with his wife. He grumbled about the inconvenience and the cost, but he eventually agreed that it was a necessary conversation.
I love my grandchildren deeply, but I refuse to give up my much-needed retirement. Have I truly gone too far by simply expecting respect, or am I right to put a price on the labor they expected for free? I look forward to connecting with the kids, but I will not be used as their unpaid maid.
