My DIL asked me to babysit once. Now, she calls every weekend: “Emergency, help!” I smiled and agreed for months because that’s what a good mother-in-law does, right? I live about forty minutes away in a quiet suburb of Manchester, and every Friday or Saturday evening, like clockwork, my phone would buzz with a frantic text or a shaky voicemail. My son, Callum, works long hours in the city, and my daughter-in-law, Rhiannon, always seemed to be at her wit’s end with my two-year-old grandson, Arthur.
At first, I didn’t mind the drive or the late nights. I love Arthur more than life itself, and the chance to cuddle him and read stories is always a treat. But as the months crawled by, the “emergencies” started feeling a bit thin. One week it was a sudden migraine; the next, it was a broken boiler that required her to “focus on the repairman.” Every time I arrived, Rhiannon would be dressed in her loungewear, looking exhausted, handing me the baby before disappearing into her bedroom for hours.
I started to feel less like a grandmother and more like a free on-call service. I noticed that whenever I asked Callum about these crises, he seemed confused, often saying he didn’t realize things were that bad at home. I didn’t want to start drama or make Rhiannon feel like I was judging her parenting, but the resentment was starting to simmer under my skin. I felt like I was being used, and I hated that the only time I saw my grandson was during a manufactured panic.
Then she called again last Saturday. The “emergency” this time was a last-minute work project that she simply couldn’t finish with a toddler running around. I said yes, but this time I had a plan. I was tired of being the silent savior who just took the baby and let the mystery continue. If she was truly struggling, I needed to see why, and if she was taking advantage of me, I needed to address it in a way she couldn’t ignore.
When I arrived at their front door, I wasn’t alone. I had made a phone call to someone Rhiannon hadn’t seen in months, someone who had been asking me about her with a worried tone for weeks. Rhiannon opened the door, her hair in a messy bun and a distracted look on her face, and she froze. Behind me was her own mother, Meredith, who I had picked up from the train station an hour earlier.
The look on Rhiannon’s face wasn’t one of guilt or annoyance at being “caught” in a lie. Instead, her eyes welled up with tears, and she almost collapsed right there in the entryway. Meredith rushed forward, catching her daughter in a hug that looked like it was holding her together. I stood back, holding little Arthur as he toddled toward me, and I realized my “gotcha” moment was actually the start of something much deeper and more necessary.
We went into the kitchen, and for the first time in months, Rhiannon didn’t hide in her room. She sat at the table and confessed that there was no work project, no migraine, and the boiler had never been broken. She had been suffering from severe postpartum depression and anxiety that had only gotten worse as Arthur entered his “terrible twos.” She felt like a failure as a mother and was terrified to tell Callum because he worked so hard to provide for them.
She had been calling me for “emergencies” because she literally couldn’t handle being alone with her own thoughts and a toddler for one more minute. The “emergencies” were her way of asking for a lifeline without having to admit she was drowning. I felt a sharp, painful pang of guilt for ever thinking she was just being lazy or manipulative. My daughter-in-law wasn’t using me; she was surviving because of me, and she was too ashamed to say so.
Meredith and I stayed the whole weekend. We took turns with the baby, cooked enough meals to fill their freezer for a month, and sat with Rhiannon while she finally told Callum everything. It turns out my son hadn’t been “confused” because he was oblivious; he had been worried sick but didn’t know how to approach her without making her feel pressured. Once the truth was out in the open, the “emergencies” stopped being secrets and started being a family plan.
But while we were cleaning out the pantry on Sunday afternoon, Meredith pulled me aside. She thanked me for calling her, but then she dropped a bombshell of her own. She told me that Rhiannon had actually been sending me money every single month for the gas and my time, tucked into the “thank you” cards she gave me that I had been putting in a drawer without opening.
I ran to my handbag and pulled out the most recent card she had handed me when I arrived. Inside was fifty pounds and a note that said: “I know I’m asking too much, and I know I’m a mess. Please don’t stop coming.” I had been so focused on my own perceived inconvenience that I hadn’t even read the words of the woman who was literally paying for her own survival with the little extra money she had.
I realized then that I had been viewing our relationship through a lens of transaction. I thought I was giving and she was taking, but in reality, we were both struggling to communicate our needs. Rhiannon was paying me because she felt she didn’t deserve my help for free, and I was resentful because I thought she didn’t value my time. A few honest conversations and a couple of opened envelopes could have saved us both months of unnecessary heartache.
The rewarding conclusion wasn’t just that Rhiannon got the professional help she needed—though that was the most important part. It was that the three of us—the two grandmothers and the young mother—formed a new kind of bond. We set up a “no-emergency” schedule where I come over every Tuesday and Meredith comes every other weekend, not because there’s a crisis, but because we are a village. We stopped waiting for things to break before we showed up to fix them.
Arthur is thriving now, mostly because his mother is actually present and not hiding behind a bedroom door. And I’ve learned to stop assuming the worst about the people I love. When someone asks for help repeatedly, it’s rarely because they are selfish; it’s usually because they are carrying something too heavy to lift alone and they don’t have the words to describe the weight.
I’ve kept all those thank-you notes now, not for the money—which I put into a savings account for Arthur—but for the reminders they provide. They remind me that everyone is fighting a battle I know nothing about. They remind me that being “used” by family is often just another way of being “needed.” And most importantly, they remind me that the best way to help someone isn’t just to say yes, but to show up with enough love to ask the hard questions.
We often think that being a “good” person means just doing the task asked of us without complaining. But true kindness requires more than just showing up; it requires empathy and the willingness to look beneath the surface. I almost missed the chance to truly save my daughter-in-law because I was too busy counting the miles on my odometer. I’m just glad I brought Meredith with me that day, because it took more than one person to bridge the gap.
Life is too short to let resentment grow in the garden of your family. If something feels off, don’t just plan a “lesson”—plan a conversation. You might find out that the person you think is taking advantage of you is actually the person who needs you the most. I’m a better grandmother now, and a much better mother-in-law, because I stopped looking for excuses and started looking for my family.
If this story reminded you that everyone is carrying a hidden burden, please share and like this post. You never know who in your circle might be drowning in “emergencies” and needs to know it’s okay to ask for a real hand. Would you like me to help you find a way to reach out to a family member you’ve been feeling distant from?
