**Grandma’s Fractured Heart: The Drama of the Whittaker Family**
I was frying sausages in the kitchen of our cosy flat in Manchester when the front door slammed. My daughters, Lily and Poppy, burst into the hallway, back from visiting their grandmother.
“Oh, my girls! How was your time at Grandma’s?” I wiped my hands on my apron and stepped out to greet them with a smile.
“Grandma doesn’t love us!” they blurted in unison, their voices trembling with hurt.
“What? Why would you say that?” I froze, my chest tightening with worry.
“Grandma did something terrible today…” they began, exchanging glances.
“What did she do?” My voice sharpened, a chill creeping into my chest.
Lily and Poppy, fighting back tears, spilled every detail. With each word, my face hardened in horror.
“She doesn’t love us!” they repeated as soon as they stepped inside.
“What makes you think that?” James, their father, looked up from his newspaper, frowning. I glanced at him, waiting for some explanation.
“She gave Oliver and Mia all the best biscuits—I saw her!” Lily tugged at her jumper’s sleeve. “And us? Nothing. They were allowed to run wild, but we had to sit quietly. And when they left, Grandma stuffed their pockets with sweets—chocolate bars, even!—hugged them, and walked them to the bus stop. But us?” Poppy sniffled. “She just shut the door!”
The blood drained from my face. I’d always suspected James’s mum, Margaret Whitaker, doted more on our sister-in-law Charlotte’s children than on ours. But this blatant? It was too much. Our relationship with her had been civil—no warmth, but no rows either. That changed when Oliver and Mia were born. Then, Margaret showed her true colours.
Over the phone, she’d gush for hours about Charlotte’s “perfect angels”:
“Such clever darlings, just like their mother! Absolute cherubs!” She’d gush with pride.
I’d hoped our girls might at least get scraps of that affection. But when Lily and Poppy arrived, Margaret met the news coldly.
“Twins? Goodness, what a handful! I haven’t the energy for them.”
“We’re not asking you to,” James said, baffled. “We’ll manage.”
“Of course you will,” she huffed. “Charlotte needs the help more—hers are a handful too!”
“And ours aren’t children?” I couldn’t hold back. “You always said Charlotte’s were so well-behaved!”
Margaret shot me a glare. “A brother should help his sister. He’s her blood—not like you.”
After that, James and I stopped expecting her support. Raising twins was exhausting, but my own mum stepped in, crossing town to help without complaint. Margaret? She only had eyes for Charlotte’s family. She’d drone on about Oliver and Mia for hours but wave off my girls:
“Oh, they’re fine. Growing steadily.”
We lived far from Margaret, visiting rarely. I avoided Charlotte—four kids in one house was chaos. The moment Lily and Poppy got loud, Margaret clutched her head, complaining of a migraine. We’d pack up and leave—Charlotte’s brood always stayed.
When we did visit, the nitpicking began: the girls ate sweets without asking, knocked things over, were “too rowdy.” Then—cue the headaches and us being shooed away. Yet she’d rave about Oliver and Mia:
“Now these are proper grandchildren! Quiet, polite, sweet—always ‘Grandma this, Grandma that’!”
She spoiled them rotten—new clothes weekly, sweets, toys. Lily and Poppy? Only birthday gifts, and those were token gestures.
Friends noticed first. When asked why she favoured Charlotte’s kids, she sniffed:
“They’re my flesh and blood!”
“And James’s girls?”
“How should I know whose they are? They’re under his name, that’s all.”
Those words, like poison, reached us through well-meaning folks. James stormed over for a reckoning. Margaret went quiet—but not for long.
Charlotte lived nearby, visiting often. James took the girls less, but they loved playing with their cousins—until even Oliver and Mia noticed Grandma’s favouritism. Soon, they pinched every mishap on Lily and Poppy, and Margaret believed them.
The final straw was the girls’ story. Margaret showered Oliver and Mia with sweets, hugged them, and walked them to the bus stop right outside. But Lily and Poppy? She shoved them out, saying she had a “pounding head.” Their bus stop was ten minutes away—across a derelict field.
“You went alone?!” My blood ran cold.
“Yeah,” Lily mumbled, wiping her nose.
“There were stray dogs… We were scared,” Poppy added, her eyes glistening. “We’re never going back!”
James and I exchanged a look. We backed their decision, but he still rang his mother:
“Mum, were you really that unwell?”
“What do you mean?”
“Then why send them alone? You knew their stop! You could’ve called me or Emma!”
“Don’t be dramatic—they’re not babies. They made it! Teach them independence.”
“Mum, they’re six! They crossed a wasteland with strays! You’d never let Charlotte’s kids do that. Why?”
“What? You’re blaming me now? Is this Emma’s doing? I won’t be spoken to like this!” She hung up.
James stared at me, stunned. I sighed. Of course, it was my fault. At least he was on my side. It took ages to calm him—he couldn’t grasp why his mother split her love. I knew: Charlotte was her daughter; her kids were “real” family. Ours? Just the in-law’s.
James couldn’t accept it.
“She raised us the same! She was thrilled at our wedding!”
I reminded him how she’d crowed over Oliver’s birth—calling everyone, showering Charlotte with gifts. Mia? “My precious granddaughter!” But our girls? “Twins? Goodness, what a handful.”
“That’s it,” I said firmly. “No more visits. Let her dote on her ‘perfect’ grandkids. Our girls have a grandma who doesn’t play favourites.”
Margaret didn’t even seem to notice when we stopped coming. The girls were in Year Six when she fell ill. Doctors ordered rest. She called Mia, begging for help with cleaning.
“Gran, I’m swamped with homework!”
Oliver refused too: “Me? Do housework? No way!”
Only then did she remember James’s girls—grown now. But she didn’t have their numbers, so she rang him:
“James, tell Lily and Poppy to come clean. Too grown to visit? Rude!”
“Five years, Mum. Remember why they stopped? Ask your favourites—you’ve got two.” He hung up.
Furious, she called me:
“Emma! Why won’t your girls help their sick grandmother?”
“Because that grandmother erased them long ago,” I said calmly. “You made your choice. Ask Charlotte—mother of your darlings. I’m away for work. James too. The girls are with their real grandma.”
Margaret glared at the phone. Even Charlotte had excuses. Was she really about to pay a cleaner? The shame! And those ungrateful girls—no wonder she never liked them! Yet she’d forgotten—or chose to—how she’d pushed them away.
As for her precious grandkids? Oliver was right: cleaning wasn’t a man’s job—smart lad! And Mia? Too busy studying. Of course she’d help if she could—unlike those two!
