I GHOSTED MY OWN FAMILY THIS MORNING.
My phone has buzzed twelve times in the last twenty minutes. It’s my daughter, Sarah. Then my son-in-law. Then the landline from the house.
I’m not answering.
Instead, I’m sitting in a diner three towns over, ordering the “Lumberjack Special” and a coffee I didn’t have to brew myself. For the last seven years, by 7:30 AM, I would have already made three school lunches (crusts cut off on one, gluten-free for the other), located missing soccer cleats, and acted as the uncredited peacekeeper of a chaotic suburban household.
But today, their driveway is empty. And I’m finally full.
I’m 64 years old. In this country, they tell us retirement is for relaxing, for travel, for “finding yourself.” But for many of us American grandparents, retirement just means switching from a paid 9-to-5 to an unpaid 24/7.
I am the “Default Grandma.”
I’m the one who navigates the terrifying school pickup line, dodging giant SUVs to get the kids safely in the car. I’m the one who sits in the humid waiting room during karate practice because both parents are working late to pay the mortgage. I’m the one who knows that Leo is terrified of thunderstorms and that Sophie needs exactly two ice cubes in her water or she won’t drink it.
I am the infrastructure of their lives. Silent. Reliable. Invisible.
Then there is “Gigi.”
Gigi is the other grandmother. She lives in a condo in Florida. She has a deep tan, a white convertible, and visits twice a year.
Gigi doesn’t bring casseroles. She brings suitcases that look like treasure chests. Gigi doesn’t bring rules about screen time. She brings chaos and sugar.
Yesterday was Sophie’s 10th birthday.
For weeks, I had been working on her gift. Sophie loves sketching, so I put together a professional artist’s portfolio. I bought the high-grade pencils, the charcoal, the expensive sketchpad. I even hand-sewed a custom denim case for it all, stitching her initials in the corner. It wasn’t flashy, but it was her.
The party was in the backyard. I was manning the grill, flipping burgers because Sarah was busy with the guests.
Then, a rental Mustang pulled up. Gigi had arrived.
The energy shifted instantly. It was like a celebrity walked in. She was wearing bright turquoise, laughing loudly, smelling of expensive perfume.
She didn’t hand Sophie a gift. She handed her a box that everyone recognizes instantly.
A brand-new, top-of-the-line iPad Pro.
The kids screamed. Literally screamed. They swarmed Gigi like she was Santa Claus. Sophie dropped the hand-sewn denim case I had just given her onto the grass to grab the tablet.
“Best! Grandma! Ever!” Sophie shrieked, hugging Gigi’s legs.
I stood by the grill, smoke in my eyes, forcing a smile. It’s okay, I told myself. It’s the excitement. This is normal.
But later, the house quieted down. Gigi was in the living room showing the kids a video. I was in the kitchen, scraping cake plates and loading the dishwasher—my usual station.
I heard Sophie’s voice drift in from the hallway.
“I wish Gigi lived here,” she said.
Then I heard my daughter, Sarah. My own daughter, whose diaper bag I packed for three years, whose mortgage I helped with when times were tight.
“I know, honey,” Sarah laughed. “Gigi is so much fun.”
“Yeah,” Sophie said. “Nana is just… strict. She’s the boring one. She always makes us do homework.”
I froze. I waited. I waited for Sarah to say, “Nana is the reason you get to play soccer. Nana is the reason you have clean clothes. Nana is the one who holds your hair back when you have the stomach flu.”
But Sarah just sighed. “Well, that’s just Nana. Gigi is the fun grandma.”
The Fun Grandma.
That’s what we call the person who dips in for the highlight reel. But what do you call the person who manages the behind-the-scenes production so the show can go on?
apparently, you call her “Boring.”
I put the last dish in the rack. I wiped the counters. I walked out the back door without saying goodbye.
I sat in my car in the dark driveway for an hour. I thought about my bad knee that throbs when I carry the laundry up their stairs. I thought about the trip to the Grand Canyon I postponed because “the kids needed me” during summer break.
I realized that in modern America, we have a crisis of care. We are so busy, so stressed, and so driven by “more”—more tech, more activities, more money—that we treat the people who actually sustain us like furniture. Useful, but unnoticed until it breaks.
I realized I wasn’t just helping them. I was enabling them to erase me.
Constant love becomes invisible. Flashy love gets the likes on Instagram.
So, this morning, I didn’t set my alarm for 6:00 AM. I didn’t drive to their house. I didn’t start the coffee pot.
I drove here. To this diner. I’m eating pancakes. I’m reading a book I bought three months ago.
My phone buzzes again. It’s a text from Sarah: “Mom? Where are you? The kids are going to be late. I have a meeting in 20 mins! Please call!”
I take a sip of coffee. It tastes wonderful.
I love my grandchildren more than breath itself. That hasn’t changed. But love should not require the loss of dignity. Being “needed” is not the same thing as being “valued.”
I will answer them eventually. I will go back. But things are going to change. “Nana” is retiring from being the silent infrastructure. If they want a driver, a maid, and a chef, they can hire one. If they want a grandmother, I’ll be right here—ready to just love them, not raise them.
If you are reading this, and there is someone in your life who makes your world run smoothly—a parent, a partner, a grandparent—someone who does the boring, heavy lifting every single day…
Thank them.
Don’t wait until they stop. Don’t wait until they break. Don’t wait until the “boring” love is gone, and you’re left with nothing but chaos and a shiny iPad.
Routine love is the strongest love there is. It deserves to be seen.
—
By the time I finally pick up my phone, my pancakes are cold and my daughter is hot with anger.
If you read Part 1, you already know: I’m the “boring” grandma who makes lunches, does school pick-up and got quietly replaced at a birthday party by a shiny tablet and a twice-a-year “Fun Grandma.” This morning, for the first time in seven years, I simply didn’t show up.
“Mom, what is going on?” Sarah explodes the second I answer. No hello. “The kids are freaking out. Leo cried when you didn’t pull into the driveway. I have a meeting in ten minutes. You can’t just disappear like this!”
Once upon a time, that sentence would have sent me lunging for my car keys, apologizing before I even knew what I was apologizing for.
Today, I stir my coffee.
