A note from my daughter-in-law after I babysat my grandson for the weekend. Apparently, she thinks she should charge me for everything I used while I was there!
She left a handwritten list on the kitchen table:
- Eggs for your breakfasts – $8
- Water (3 bottles) – $3
- Washing powder – $5
- Electricity – $12
- Toilet paper used – $3
- Laundry detergent – $5
- Toothpaste – $4
TOTAL: $40
I am absolutely furious.
I’m the grandma, not her personal ATM! How in the world can she think this is okay? I gave up my weekend to help her—watched her son, changed diapers, cooked meals, cleaned up after a toddler—and now she wants to bill me for toothpaste and toilet paper?
Am I supposed to pay for breathing in her house next?!
I’m seriously at a loss here… Am I wrong to feel this way, or is this completely out of line? What would you do in my place? ⬇️
But it didn’t stop there…
Just as I was packing up to leave, she texted me saying,
“Hey, just a reminder about the note on the table. You can leave the $40 in the fruit bowl. Thanks again for watching Logan!”
Leave the money in the fruit bowl?? Like I’m a guest who overstayed my welcome?
The worst part is, my grandson hugged me so tightly when I left—he said, “I love you, Grandma. Come back soon.”
And now, I don’t even know if I should.
Do I set a boundary? Say something to my son? Or just pull away and stop offering help where it’s clearly not appreciated?
I’ve never felt so small. So… used.
I stood there in the kitchen, just staring at that note. My hands were shaking—not because of the $40—but because of what it represented.
Not once in my life had I imagined being handed a bill for spending time with my grandchild. I thought babysitting Logan for the weekend was an act of love, not some business transaction to be tallied up on paper like a hotel invoice.
I kept reading it, thinking maybe it was a joke. Maybe she had a twisted sense of humor and would pop out from the hallway with a smirk and a “Gotcha!”
But she didn’t.
No smirk. No laugh. Just silence. And a fruit bowl waiting for my payment.
The eggs? I bought them myself on Friday. The toothpaste? It was a travel-size tube I keep in my purse. Electricity? Please—Logan and I spent most of the day at the park. She even counted toilet paper. Three dollars’ worth, apparently.
I sat down on the couch, where Logan had curled up in my lap the night before, holding his little blanket and whispering, “You smell like home, Grandma.”
Home.
That’s what being a grandparent is supposed to feel like. Safe. Warm. Unconditional.
But in that moment, sitting there with a bill for basic decency, I felt like I was being priced out of my own family.
What hurt more than anything was the thought that this was intentional. That she sat down and calculated it. That she looked at me, the woman who raised the man she married, and thought, “She owes me.”
On the drive home, I couldn’t stop the tears. I kept seeing Logan’s little smile in the rearview mirror of my mind. Kept hearing his laugh as we built a pillow fort and played “secret spy” with plastic walkie-talkies.
And now I was left wondering:
Do I keep showing up and silently swallowing this treatment?
Do I confront her?
Do I risk tension with my son—the father of the little boy who thinks I hung the moon?
Because if I say nothing, I fear she’ll keep pushing further.
But if I say something, will I lose my place in Logan’s life?
I didn’t ask for money. I didn’t ask for praise. I just wanted to be a grandma.
Now I’m sitting here asking the internet what to do—because right now, I feel like I’m being charged for love.
