I no longer visit my children on weekends.

I’m not going to see the kids on weekends anymore.

I’m an older woman, seventy-two years old, and what I see in my family causes me pain and sadness. That’s why I’ve made a difficult but firm decision: I’ll stop going to my children’s house on weekends to see and play with my grandson Lucas. Enough is enough. I’m tired of feeling like an unwanted guest in their home. If they want to see me, let them come to my house. I’m not going to humiliate myself any longer by begging for meetings that, it seems, only matter to me. My heart is breaking, but I can’t go on like this. The time has come to respect myself, even if it means being alone.

For years, I lived for my family. I raised my son, Javier, and gave him everything I could. When he married Lucía, I was happy: a good girl, intelligent, and hardworking. And when Lucas, my only grandson, was born, I felt reborn. Every weekend, I took the bus and crossed half the city to be with him. I brought him candy, made him his favorite muffins, we played games, and I read him stories. Lucas is six years old, lively and curious, and I thought those moments were important for everyone. But, over time, I began to notice something changed.

It all started a couple of years ago. Javier and Lucía grew distant. I’d get home and they’d be busy: talking on the phone or on the computer. “Mom, stay with Lucas, we have things to do,” Javier would say, and leave me with the boy while they sorted out their “important matters.” Lucía wouldn’t even offer me a coffee. “Isabel, the muffins are in the kitchen, have some if you want,” she’d blurt out. My muffins? The ones I’d brought for them myself? I kept quiet to avoid arguments, but every gesture like that hurt.

The final straw was last month. I arrived on a Saturday, as usual, with a bag full of candy. Lucas was overjoyed and ran to hug me, but Lucía looked at me and said, “Isabel, could you let them know sooner. We have plans; we were going to the mall with Javi.” Plans? Weren’t I part of them? I offered to take Lucas so they could go peacefully, but Javier just said, “Keep him with you, Mom, it’ll take a moment.” Just a moment? They came back five hours later. Meanwhile, I made him lunch because the fridge was almost empty. When they came back, they didn’t even thank me. Lucía just mumbled, “Oh, are you still here? I thought you’d have left by now.”

I left with my soul in suspense. At home, I sat in my old armchair, looked at a photo of Lucas and me making a snowman, and cried. Why did I feel so expendable? All my life I tried to be a good mother and grandmother, and now I was treated like a free babysitter. I remembered the days when Javier and I were close, when he would tell me his dreams. Now he doesn’t even ask how I’m feeling. Lucía isn’t bad, but her coldness hurts. And I realized I couldn’t go on like this.

The next day, I called Javier and told him, “Javi, I’m not coming back on the weekends. If you want to visit me or have Lucas spend time with me, come to my house. I’m tired of being an unwelcome guest.” He was surprised: “Mom, what are you saying? You can always come over, Lucas loves you.” Does he love me? And you, Javier? I didn’t want to argue. I just repeated, “My house is open, but I won’t be coming back.” When Lucía found out, she just shrugged: “Well, whatever, Isabel.” Nothing more. Not a word of understanding.

Now I spend the weekends at home, and the silence suffocates me. I miss Lucas’s laugh, his questions, the way he would tug at my arm: “Grandma, tell me a story!” But I’m not going to beg for affection where I’m not appreciated. I’m not young anymore, my heart sometimes fails me and my legs ache, but they don’t even consider the effort I make to get to them with my bags. My neighbor, Mrs. Carmen, upon hearing this, told me: “Isabel, you did the right thing. Let them move, they’ve gotten used to you carrying everything.” But her words don’t console me. I miss my grandson, my son, even Lucía, even though she’s as cold as marble.

It’s been two weeks, and no one has come. Javier called once, asking if I’d changed my mind. I replied, “Javi, you know where I live.” He mumbled something about being busy and hung up. I’m told Lucas asks for me, and Lucía tells him, “Grandma’s resting.” Resting? I can’t sleep thinking about him! But I won’t give in. I deserve respect, not an on-demand nanny. If they want to be a family, they should show it.

Sometimes I blame myself: Have I been too harsh? Should I just put up with it for Lucas? But remembering their indifference, I reassert myself. I don’t want to be the grandmother who only matters when they need help. I want to be a part of their lives, not their maid. My house is still open, the kettle is on the stove, and the muffins are in the oven. But now it’s up to them to make the first move. And I’ll wait, even if it takes a while. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s time to learn to live for myself, however painful that may be.