When I found out I was pregnant, I was overwhelmed with joy and fear in equal measure. My husband and I had been trying for over a year, and the little plus sign on the test brought tears to my eyes. But quickly after the joy came the questions—who would take care of the baby when I returned to work? Could we afford daycare? Would anyone love and care for our baby the way we would?
I turned to the person I trusted more than anyone: my mother.
My mom, Denise, is 64 years old. She raised three kids, held part-time jobs while doing so, and later worked at a local community center before she retired early due to a chronic back issue and burnout. She lives alone in a modest apartment 25 minutes from our house. She’s fiercely independent, lives on a tight pension, and prides herself on not relying on anyone.
When I asked her if she’d be willing to look after the baby once I went back to work, I fully expected an enthusiastic yes. I envisioned her cradling our newborn, telling stories, singing lullabies from my childhood. I thought she’d be overjoyed to spend her days with her grandchild.
But she paused.
“I’ll need to think about it,” she said slowly. “That’s a big responsibility.”
I was taken aback. I didn’t know what to say. Wasn’t this what grandparents did?
A week later, she called me and said she would help—but only if she were paid.
“I’m not trying to be greedy,” she said gently. “But this would be full-time work. I don’t have much in retirement, and I still have bills. I can’t afford to give up my time for free, sweetheart.”
Her words stung more than I expected.
I felt betrayed. Angry, even. She was unemployed, living on a fixed income, and I assumed she’d want to be part of her grandchild’s life. I wasn’t asking her to babysit on weekends so we could go on date nights—I needed help while we both worked, trying to afford the very house I was raising her grandchild in.
I tried to push back, reasoning that we were family.
She didn’t budge.
“This is about sustainability,” she said. “Watching a child, especially a baby, is no joke. You’ll want someone who’s alert, responsible, patient. If you were paying a daycare, you’d be giving them thousands. I’m just asking for something modest, to acknowledge the labor.”
I didn’t want to pay her. It felt transactional. Cold. But I also didn’t want to send my newborn to strangers. The daycare near us had a nine-month waitlist, and the in-home caregivers were either full or absurdly expensive. My husband and I did the math over and over. Even if we paid my mom a modest amount—$500 a month, far less than standard childcare—we’d still be stretching our budget uncomfortably.
But it was cheaper than daycare, and I trusted her.
Reluctantly, I agreed.
That first month was full of tension. She arrived on time every morning, fed and soothed the baby, even cleaned up a bit around the house. But our relationship felt formal, like employer and employee. There were awkward moments—when I asked if she could stay late and she said she’d have to charge extra, or when she asked for a day off and I panicked about finding a backup.
One day, after a long week, I finally broke down.
“I didn’t expect it to feel like this,” I admitted tearfully. “I thought we’d be closer. I thought you’d want to be here.”
She looked at me with tired, compassionate eyes. “I do want to be here. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t work.”
She took my hand.
“You’re thinking of this as either love or labor. But it’s both. I love you, I love your baby. I’m happy to help. But I’m also 64. I gave up my golden years for three kids. My body aches. I don’t get to nap when I’m tired. I’m starting over, in a way. And I need to protect my own stability too.”
I hadn’t seen it from her side. I remembered her long days when we were little—the times she worked night shifts, packed our lunches, ran the house while dad worked overtime. She never complained. Maybe that was part of the problem.
I adjusted my expectations after that. We created a schedule that allowed her breaks. I increased her payment slightly when we got a small bonus. And most importantly, I stopped seeing the money as a wedge between us. It was simply part of the reality: people deserve to be compensated for their time, even family.
And as the weeks passed, our dynamic softened.
She started sending me photos during the day—my son’s gummy smile, his first attempts at crawling. She knitted him a tiny blanket with dinosaurs stitched along the edge. She sang to him while cooking, told him old family stories, and sometimes I’d come home to find her dozing on the couch, the baby asleep on her chest.
I learned something essential in all this: love doesn’t have to be free to be real. My mom was still showing up every day, giving her all, but she was also setting a boundary. She was asking, finally, for the recognition she hadn’t received all those years ago.
Now, when people ask who watches our baby, I smile and say, “My mom. And yes—we pay her. Because she’s worth it.”
She may be 64 and unemployed, but she’s not without value. She’s a woman who gave everything for her family and finally decided that her time matters too.
And honestly? I respect her more than ever for it.
