Cracks in the Screen: A Grandmother’s Dilemma

“Alexa, can you please help me with the baby’s bottle?” My voice wavered as I stood in the doorway, watching my daughter-in-law’s face illuminated by the soft blue glow of her phone. She barely looked up, thumb flicking, eyes glazed. The baby, my grandson Liam, sat on the play mat at her feet, his chubby hands outstretched, reaching for her attention.

I swallowed hard. I didn’t want to be that mother-in-law—the meddling, judgmental one. But the room felt heavy with what was left unsaid. I remembered when my own boys were young, when I would almost miss the sound of my own heartbeat beneath the chaos of their laughter. I also remembered the loneliness of motherhood, the desperate need for escape, if only for a few minutes. But this—this seemed different.

I watched as Alexa scrolled, pausing only to smirk at something unseen, then typed furiously. The baby’s soft whimper caught in my chest. I stepped closer, picking Liam up, and he curled into me instantly, his tiny fist clutching my shirt. Alexa’s eyes flicked up, just for a second. “Thanks, Sharon. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Later that evening, after dinner, I sat across from my son, Michael. He looked tired—old for thirty-four—with lines on his face I didn’t remember. I wanted to confide in him, to ask if he’d noticed, but the words tangled in my throat. Instead, I sipped my tea and listened as Alexa laughed at a video on her phone, oblivious.

That night, I lay awake, Liam’s soft breathing echoing down the hall. I wondered if it was my place to say something. Was this how all grandmothers felt, watching the world change faster than they could hold onto? I remembered my own mother, her stern voice: “Mind your own business, Sharon. Don’t meddle.” But this felt like more than meddling—it felt like a plea for my grandson’s happiness.

The next morning, I found Alexa in the kitchen, scrolling again, coffee untouched.

“Alexa, I know you’re busy, but Liam’s been asking for you.” I tried to keep my tone gentle.

She rolled her eyes, but went to him, phone in hand. He tugged at her leg, babbling, but she just patted his head absently, eyes never leaving the screen.

I couldn’t take it. “Alexa, can I talk to you for a minute?”

She sighed, but followed me to the living room. I took a deep breath. “I know things are different now, with all this technology. But sometimes…I worry that Liam needs more of you. He’s only little for such a short time.”

She stiffened, her face closing like a book. “Are you saying I’m a bad mother?”

“No! No, not at all!” I rushed to reassure her, but the words felt clumsy. “I just…when I see him looking for you, and you’re busy—well, I worry. That’s all. I’m sorry if I’m out of line.”

She stared at me, lips pressed tight. “You don’t know what it’s like. I’m with him all day. The phone is the only adult conversation I get.”

I nodded, remembering the isolation, the endless days with no one but a colicky baby and the clock ticking. “I do understand. I just worry about him. And about you, too.”

She looked away, blinking quickly. “I’m doing my best.”

“I know you are.”

The air was thick with things we couldn’t say. I wanted to tell her that I admired her, that I knew how hard it was, that I wasn’t judging. But I also wanted to shake her, to make her see the little boy desperate for her attention.

Michael came home early that day, tension etched on his face. After Alexa went upstairs, I found him in the backyard, staring at nothing.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

He hesitated. “I don’t know how to help her, Mom. She’s so…distant. I try, but she shuts me out.”

I put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re both doing your best. Maybe…maybe she needs help. Or someone to talk to.”

He nodded. “I just want Liam to be happy. And Alexa, too.”

That night, I offered to watch Liam so Alexa could have some time for herself, away from the house—and her phone. She went out for a walk. When she returned, her eyes were red. She hugged Liam tightly, holding him long after he squirmed to get free. She didn’t pick up her phone for the rest of the evening.

For the next few days, things were a little better. Alexa tried to put the phone down more often. She played with Liam, laughing with him, her eyes bright. But the phone was never far. I realized this was going to be a long road—not just for Alexa, but for all of us.

Sometimes, love means speaking up, even when it’s uncomfortable. Sometimes, it means listening, even when you’re desperate to fix things. I don’t know if I did the right thing. But I know I did it for love.

I look at Liam giggling in the sunlight, Alexa watching him with a tired smile, and wonder: When is it better to stay silent, and when does love demand we speak?

What would you have done if you were in my place? How do we balance honesty with kindness when it comes to our families?