**Diary Entry**
I’ve never been one to ignore another’s struggles lightly. Life has taught me too much for that. I raised two children on my own, weathered hardships and disappointments, and learned the real price of care—those sleepless nights when a feverish child needs you and no one else will do. Yet some things simply can’t be forced. Love, for instance.
When my son James told me he was marrying a woman with a child, I didn’t object. I supported him as any mother would—because I saw he was truly in love. All I want is for him to be happy. Loved, valued. Whatever baggage came with it didn’t matter, so long as it was real. I never spoke a word against Emily, his choice. A single mother, her husband bolted—women like that deserve understanding, not judgment. But…
Seven years have passed since they became a family. Lily, from Emily’s first marriage, is now six, while our shared grandson, little Oliver, is just two. The girl is clever, sweet-natured, well-behaved. And yet… she isn’t my blood. Yes, I do everything I can. I bring gifts—fair ones, never favouring one over the other—read Lily stories, play pretend with her, even help with her schoolwork. But my heart? It’s Oliver’s. In him, I see James, my late husband. He makes me melt, leaves me breathless with how much he feels like mine. With Lily? It’s kindness, respect. Nothing more.
And that’s what sparked the row with Emily. She insists I love Lily the same way I love Oliver. As if love were a switch to flip on command. No, my dear—it doesn’t work like that. I won’t perform for an audience. I can help. I can be there. But I won’t pretend.
I blame Lily for nothing. She’s just a child caught in a difficult spot. But she has her own grandparents. If one lives too far away and the other vanished after the divorce—that’s hardly my fault. Emily herself told me how her mother, still working past retirement, barely sees the children. How she turns them away without warning if they don’t come bearing food or spare clothes. So why am I the villain?
Unlike her mother, I’m always there. At a moment’s notice. Clothes, groceries, driving Lily to ballet. All with love—but only the love I have to give. No more. Don’t ask it of me.
Emily’s grown colder, watching every gift like a shopkeeper tallying costs. “Why does Lily get a book while Oliver gets a toy?” How can I explain the book was chosen with care, suited to her interests? It’s wasted breath. Her answer’s always the same: “You don’t love my daughter.” I’ve tried, gently, to say love isn’t owed. It’s earned, or it grows. It defies ledgers. I’m kind to Lily. Isn’t that enough?
James and I spoke, too—calmly, without dramatics. I told him I bear Lily no ill will, that I try. But forcing equal love? Impossible. If he and Emily demand feelings I don’t have, better we see less of each other than live a lie. He understood. He’s a good lad. But he’s caught now—torn between wife and mother, and I don’t envy him the choice.
As for me? I’m tired of justifying what’s plain as day. I’m a grandmother. A real one—by blood, to Oliver. To Lily, I’m a decent, caring woman. That’s fair. That’s honest. That harms no one. To ask for more is cruel.
And here’s the truth: I’m not wicked. I just refuse to be shamed for what I can’t change. This is my heart. My conscience. My truth. And I’ll stand by it—even if it costs me whatever’s left with my daughter-in-law.
**Lesson today**: Love defies arithmetic. Give what you can, but never let guilt carve you into shapes you don’t recognise.
