Emily was standing in the kitchen, frying sausages, when the front door slammed—her daughters were back from visiting their grandmother. The girls shrugged off their coats and spoke in near unison:
“We’re never going to Grandma’s again! She doesn’t love us.”
Emily froze. Stepping into the hallway, she stared at Olivia and Lily.
“Why would you say that?”
“She gave all the nice treats to Jack and Sophie. We got nothing. They could run around and shout, but we couldn’t. And when they left, Grandma gave them chocolate bars, stuffed their pockets with sweets, kissed them, and even walked them to the bus stop. But us? She just shoved us out the door…”
Emily listened in silence, a lump forming in her throat. Her mother-in-law, Margaret, had made it clear for years who she truly considered her grandchildren. Jack and Sophie were the children of her daughter, Hannah. But the twins, Olivia and Lily? They were Emily’s daughters—outsiders.
When Emily first married James, her relationship with Margaret had been tolerable—not close, but not hostile. Everything changed when Hannah had children. Margaret blossomed—her grandchildren became her pride and joy. But only *those* grandchildren—the ones “by blood.”
When James and Emily had their twins, Margaret’s reaction was flat:
“Two at once? Goodness. I couldn’t handle two.”
James assured her they weren’t asking for help. But after that, a wall went up. Emily’s own mother became their refuge—helping with the girls without complaint. Meanwhile, Margaret doted only on Hannah’s children.
Years passed, and nothing changed. James’s children got birthday presents; Hannah’s got everything, anytime. Margaret didn’t even hide it, telling neighbours:
“Real grandchildren come from your daughter. The others? Who even knows. Just a name on paper.”
When James and Emily heard that, he confronted his mother for the first time. It didn’t last—Grandma still played favourites. And the children felt it.
That day, the twins explained how Grandma had kicked them out because she “had a headache.” She sent them alone across a field to the far bus stop—six-year-olds, walking by themselves.
“You walked alone?!” James asked, stunned.
“Yeah,” Lily nodded. “We were scared. There were stray dogs…”
James called Margaret immediately.
“Mum, did you know you sent them through that rough field? Alone?”
“Don’t exaggerate,” she replied coolly. “They need to learn independence.”
“They’re *six*! Would you have sent Hannah’s kids alone?”
“Oh, so now I’m the villain? That wife of yours has poisoned you!”
The call ended abruptly. James looked at Emily, bewildered. She pressed her lips together.
“That’s it,” Emily said. “They’re not going back. They have a grandmother who loves them—my mum. Yours can focus on her *real* grandchildren.”
Years later, the twins grew up. Only when Margaret fell ill and couldn’t manage alone did she suddenly remember Olivia and Lily.
First, she called Jack—he refused, saying he wasn’t “a maid.” Sophie wouldn’t come either—”too busy with homework.” So Margaret phoned James.
“Send yours over. They can help.”
“You haven’t seen them in five years. Now you remember? Ask the ones you love,” he said, hanging up.
Then came the call to Emily:
“You have to come. I’m ill!”
“I don’t owe you anything. Ask your daughter. We’re away. The girls are with the grandmother who actually cares for them.”
Margaret stared at the phone. Was this really how it ended? Would no one come?
But was it her fault?
She always knew who was truly hers—and who wasn’t.
