I am 82 years old, and I want to share a reflection about grandchildren that few people talk about.

I am 82 years old. My name is María Dolores. And I’m going to say something that makes many people uncomfortable, something almost no grandmother dares to say out loud: I love my grandchildren, but they are not the center of my life.

Yes, I love them. Of course I do. They are part of my family, of my history. But they are not my reason for existing. And I am tired of pretending otherwise.

For years, we have been sold the image of the “perfect grandmother”: always available, always smiling, always ready to care, cook, spoil, and say yes to everything. That grandmother who lives for her grandchildren, who has no life of her own, who finds happiness only in serving.

But that image is not real… or at least, not for everyone.