“Daughter-in-Law Demands Equal Love for the Children. But I Can’t…”
I’m not the sort of woman who easily dismisses another’s fate. Life has taught me much. I raised two children on my own, weathered hardships and heartaches, and know the true cost of care—those sleepless nights with a feverish child, when no one else is needed but you. But some things cannot be forced. Love is one of them.
When my son William announced he was marrying a woman with a child, I didn’t object. I supported him, as a mother should, because I saw he was truly in love. What matters most to me? That my son is happy. Loved. Valued. As for the past—let it be, so long as it’s genuine. I never spoke ill of Emily, his chosen one. A single mother raising a girl, abandoned by her husband—you don’t judge women like that. You try to understand them. But…
Seven years have passed since they became a family. Little Sophie, from Emily’s first marriage, is now six, while our shared grandson, Oliver, is barely two. Sophie is clever, pretty, well-behaved. And yet… she isn’t my blood. Yes, I do all I can. I bring gifts, equal in measure—no favouritism, no penny spared. I’ll read Sophie a story, play dolls with her, help with her schoolwork. But my heart? It’s with Oliver. In him, I see my William, traces of my late husband. He makes my heart swell; I could watch him for hours. With Sophie… it’s kindness. Respect. Warmth. But no more.
That’s what sparked the row with Emily. She insists I love Sophie the same as Oliver—as if love could be summoned on command. No, dear. That isn’t how it works. I don’t perform for an audience. I can help, I can be there, I can care—but I won’t pretend.
I blame Sophie for nothing. She’s just a child caught in a difficult spot. But she has her own grandmothers. One lives miles away, the other vanished after the divorce—that isn’t my fault. Emily herself admits her mother works late into retirement, barely sees the children, even locks the door unless they bring food and a change of clothes. So why am I the villain?
Unlike that woman, I’m always there. A phone call away. Clothes, groceries, driving Sophie to ballet. And all of it—with love. The love I *can* give. No more. Don’t ask for it.
Emily greets me with colder shoulders each visit. She eyes every gift, silently tallying the cost. *Why just a book for Sophie, but a toy car for Oliver?* How to explain I chose that book with care, knowing Sophie would adore it? But the answer’s always the same: *You don’t love my daughter.* I’ve tried to say gently—love isn’t owed. It’s earned, or it grows. It can’t be measured. I’m kind to Sophie. Isn’t that enough?
I’ve spoken to William too. Calmly, no drama. Told him I don’t resent Sophie, that I try. But I can’t force equal love. 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 torn now—between wife and mother, caught in the middle, unsure where to stand.
And I? I’m tired of defending the obvious. I’m a grandmother. A real one—to Oliver, by blood. To Sophie? A good, caring woman in her life. That’s honest. That’s fair. That harms no one. But to demand more? That’s cruel.
And you know what? I’m not wicked. I just refuse to be shamed for what I cannot change. This is my heart. My conscience. My truth. And I’ll stand by it—even if it costs me my daughter-in-law.
**Sometimes kindness is enough, even when love won’t grow where it wasn’t planted.**
