They say grandmothers love their grandchildren more than their own children. I used to believe that, too. I watched my own parents dote on their grandkids, making up for what they couldn’t give us—attention, patience, gentleness. They’re the ones who scoop us up when we’re exhausted and take on what we can’t carry, all with love.
But life teaches you: not all grandmothers are the same. Some put pride before love, judgment before care. My cousin Margaret is one of those.
Her son, James, had a daughter with a woman named Chloe. Their relationship was rocky from the start—Chloe had a fiery temper, wild parties, a restless heart. A year after the baby was born, she ended up in prison, tangled up with the wrong crowd. The child stayed with her father.
At first, James tried. He was attentive, played with the little girl, did his best. But then came another woman—Emily. Now, she filled his world: his home, his bed, his priorities. Emily isn’t cruel, no. She’s just indifferent. She follows the manual—feeds her, changes her, puts her to bed—but there’s no love, and it shows.
Margaret, though? She pours her resentment for Chloe straight onto that little girl.
“Just like her mother. Same bad blood. Same rotten genes,” she mutters behind her back—sometimes right to her face.
Not long ago, they all came to visit. The girl—Lily—sat quietly in the corner, playing without a sound. Every tiny movement earned a snap:
“Don’t touch that!”
“Sit properly!”
“How many times must I tell you?”
Watching it made my skin crawl. She’s four years old. No one spoke to her, looked her in the eye, or smiled. I couldn’t take it, so I took her to my daughter’s room. We drew pictures, sang silly songs. Within half an hour, the house was quiet—no tantrums, no “difficult child.”
“She’s calmed down, has she?” Margaret said, surprised.
“Have you tried explaining instead of shouting? Just telling her what’s right and wrong?”
Margaret scoffed.
“What’s the point? Waste of time. She’s got bad genes. Nothing will fix that.”
I sank into my chair. Those words came from a grown woman. About a little girl. A child with no mother, no warmth, no softness—just “bad genes.”
Later, when I held Lily, she clung to me like she was afraid I’d push her away. And then she cried—silent, desperate sobs that tore at my heart. A little wolf cub, used to being nobody’s.
And Margaret? She treats my daughter like royalty—kisses, spoils her, showers her with gifts. But Lily? “Different blood.” As if a child could be guilty of her mother’s mistakes.
I’ll never understand how anyone can divide children like that. For what? Their parents’ failures? Their surname? A past they had no part in?
A child needs love. Just one person who won’t betray them. Without that, no genes in the world will save them. And grandmothers who reject their own over “bad blood”? They don’t deserve the name.
What do you think? Can a child inherit someone else’s guilt? And what’s worse—bad genes or a heartless grown-up?
