My Daughter-in-law Billed Me $200 To See My Grandkids. As A Retired Cpa, I Sent Her A Counter-invoice For $247,900. Who Is The Greedy One Now?

The Price of a Grandfather’s Love

I wanted to take my grandchildren to the science museum like I did every month. However, my daughter-in-law stopped me at the door with a tablet in her hand.

“You want time with Sophia and Oliver? The rate is $200 per visit, effective immediately.” She said.

She showed me a spreadsheet with dates, times, and calculated fees. I smiled calmly and told her I’d need a day to think about it.

The next morning, I handed her a manila envelope. She was expecting my payment agreement, but what she found inside made her face drain of all color.

She started screaming about lawsuits and lawyers. The funny thing was, she was a lawyer herself.

I was in my garage organizing fishing gear when Michael pulled up in the driveway. My son had that look he always got when Jessica sent him to deal with something she didn’t want to handle herself.

He had a tight smile, an apologetic posture, and he wouldn’t quite meet my eyes. “Dad, hey, you got a minute?” He asked.

I sat down the tackle box I’d been sorting through. “Always got time for you, Michael.” I replied.

He came into the garage but didn’t sit on the workbench stool like he used to when he was younger. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, looking at my wall of organized tools.

“Jessica and I have been talking about the kids, about boundaries and expectations.” He began.

I waited. When Michael started a conversation like this, there was always a “but” coming.

“She thinks—we think—that maybe we need to formalize some things. You’ve been great with Sophia and Oliver, amazing really, but Jessica’s been researching fair market value for childcare and enrichment activities.” He continued.

“She feels like maybe we haven’t been equitable about compensating people for their time.” He added.

I kept my voice level. “Compensating people? I’m not people, Michael. I’m their grandfather.” I said.

He shifted his weight. “I know, Dad, but Jessica’s point is that your time has value. If we’re asking you to provide childcare services, transportation to activities, and educational experiences, then there should be some kind of acknowledgment of that value.” He explained.

I’d been a CPA for 37 years before I retired. I knew what he was trying to say, and I knew he didn’t believe a word of it.

“What exactly is Jessica proposing?” I asked.

He pulled out his phone, and I could tell he was reading from something she’d written. “Going forward, if you want scheduled time with the kids, the fee would be $200 per visit. That covers the opportunity cost of other childcare arrangements we could be making and compensates for the disruption to their routine.” He read.

Two hundred dollars. I thought about the eight years since Sophia was born and the weekly visits that became twice weekly.

I thought about the museum trips, the fishing weekends, and the summer day camps I’d paid for. I thought about the bedroom I’d converted into a space for them at my house, filled with books, toys, and art supplies.

“And if I don’t pay?” I questioned.

Michael looked miserable. “Then we’d need to limit visits to major holidays, under supervision.” He admitted.

“Under supervision? Like I was some kind of threat? I see. Can you send me Jessica’s proposal in writing?” I asked.

He looked relieved that I wasn’t arguing. “Sure, Dad. I’ll have her email it.” He replied.

After he left, I went into my office and opened the file cabinet. I’d always been organized, kept receipts, documented expenses, and maintained records.

It was a habit from my accounting days. I had a folder for Sophia and one for Oliver, started the week each of them was born.

The spreadsheets I’d created were detailed. They included every birthday gift, every Christmas present, every summer camp fee, and every museum membership.

I tracked every educational toy, every piece of sports equipment, and every expense. I’d never planned to use them for anything; they were just my way of keeping track and making sure I was being fair to both kids.

But now, looking at eight years of data, I saw something else. I saw leverage.

Jessica’s email came that evening. It was professional and formatted like a legal contract with clauses about scheduling, payment terms, and cancellation policies.

At the bottom was a payment schedule. “$200 per visit, payable in advance, non-refundable.” It stated.

I spent the weekend in my office. I created my own spreadsheet, much more detailed than Jessica’s simple fee schedule.

I pulled receipts from my files, bank statements from my boxes of financial records, and credit card bills from my organized archives. Everything was documented, dated, and categorized.

I included the fishing boat I’d bought specifically because Michael mentioned wanting to take the kids fishing but couldn’t afford a boat, which cost $12,000. I added the annual passes to the science museum, the aquarium, the children’s museum, and the zoo, totaling $4,200 for eight years.

I listed the bedroom renovation, the bunk beds, the bookshelf, the art desk, and the toy storage, which came to $6,800. I included summer camps for every year, two weeks each for both kids, totaling $32,000.

I’d told Michael they were on scholarship, but I’d been paying full price. I added the birthday parties—not just gifts, but the parties themselves I’d hosted at my house with entertainers and food for 20 kids, totaling $11,400.

I listed school supplies, clothes, shoes, winter coats, sports equipment, music lessons, and tutoring for Oliver, totaling another $18,000 over the years.

I included the college funds I’d set up, contributing $500 a month for each child since birth, totaling $96,000, not counting interest.

I added medical expenses when Michael’s insurance didn’t cover everything, including dental work, glasses for Sophia, Oliver’s broken arm, and emergency room visits, totaling $14,300.

I added it all up three times to make sure. The total came to $247,900.

That didn’t even include the value of my time: the hours I’d spent babysitting, the weekends I dedicated to the kids, and the evenings I’d helped with homework.

I created an invoice. It was professional, detailed, and formatted exactly like the contracts I used to create for clients.

I included payment terms: 30 days, full amount due, with late fees applicable. Then I printed it, put it in a manila envelope, and sealed it.