I retired on a Tuesday—too eager to wait for Friday. My coworkers gave me a hammock card, and I hugged familiar faces I’d known for decades. Driving home, I blasted the radio, already dreaming of watercolor classes, train trips, and lazy mornings. When I called my son to share the news, his wife’s voice interrupted: “Perfect timing—we can cancel daycare!” I froze. My vision of freedom vanished, replaced by early drop-offs at 7:45 a.m.

“I love the kids,” I said firmly, “but I’m not a free babysitter.” The call ended abruptly. Later, a long text arrived: daycare was costly, so surely I could help. I replied carefully, expressing my love for my grandkids but emphasizing I’d worked hard for this new season of life. I offered a weekly “Grandma Day,” school pickups, dinners, concerts, and emergencies—but not full-time care.

Thankfully, they agreed. Our rhythm settled. On Grandma Days, we baked brownies, painted rocks, read Charlotte’s Web, and played Go Fish with serious faces. Sometimes they asked for more; sometimes I said yes, sometimes no. They hired a sitter, and I took that train trip with Elaine—my watercolor apple more planet than fruit, but mine.

At my birthday dinner, they gifted me a collage, featuring a photo of me laughing with the kids, captioned: “Thank you for the gift of your time (on your terms).” This was the balance I wanted—love, generous but bounded.