My granddaughter is fading before my eyes. She’s starting to hate both her mother and her little sister. I’m afraid I’ll have to take her in—otherwise, this will end in tragedy.
I’ve always believed a mother should love her children equally—no favorites, no comparisons, no conditions. Childhood isn’t a competition for affection. Whenever I heard stories about parents labeling one child as the “better one” and another as a “disappointment,” I’d think, *That could never happen to us.* But now, I’m living inside that very story. Only it isn’t someone else’s—it’s my family. My daughter. My granddaughter. My pain.
Lauren was always ambitious, demanding, proud. She never cared for ordinary boys—only those with “prospects” and “security.” In the end, she married Edward, a former athlete who opened his own gym in Brighton. My husband and I gifted them a two-bedroom flat for their wedding and helped them secure good jobs through our connections. Everything seemed perfect—stability, care, a bright future.
A year later, Lauren got pregnant, and the whole family was overjoyed. The pregnancy was smooth, and a healthy girl was born—Emily, named after my mother. Lauren was a natural: feeding, soothing, taking her for walks. Emily was a quiet, obedient child who rarely cried—even when teething. Lauren was the perfect mother. We were all so proud of her.
But six years later, everything changed.
Lauren was pregnant again. From the start, it was difficult—high blood pressure, gestational diabetes, migraines, morning sickness. She spent half the pregnancy in hospital. The birth was traumatic, ending in a C-section, and recovery took months. Then little Sophie arrived—just as strong and healthy as her sister. But Lauren? It was as if she’d become a different person.
For the first few months, Edward’s mother, Margaret, and I helped as much as we could. I often took Emily to stay with me so Lauren could focus on the baby. Margaret stayed at their house. We thought we were helping—until I overheard Lauren snap at Emily:
“Get out of my sight! I’m tired of you!”
At first, I told myself it was just exhaustion. But things only got worse. Lauren no longer saw Emily as her daughter—only as a nuisance. The smallest things set her off: Emily’s hair, her expression, even a simple question. “Leave me alone,” “Stop bothering me,” “I don’t have time for you”—these words became Emily’s daily reality. Once, Lauren muttered:
“Life would be easier without you.”
And another time, quietly but clearly:
“I wish you hadn’t been born first…”
Emily is only seven. At that age, a child is so fragile. She’s about to start primary school—she needs her mother’s support. Instead, she lives in a house where only Sophie is loved. Sweet, giggling, chubby Sophie. Emily? She doesn’t smile anymore.
She’s stopped playing. Stopped drawing. She just sits by the window or hides in a corner with a book. Worse still, she’s started saying things that chill me to the bone:
“Gran, why was Sophie born? Things were better before her. If she wasn’t here, Mum would love me again…”
I’ve tried talking to Lauren. Gently at first, then more firmly. I’ve told her you can’t treat children this way—that favoritism scars them, that Emily needs love too. But Lauren brushes me off:
“Emily’s seven, she’s old enough. She has everything. She doesn’t need me fussing over her like a baby. Sophie does.”
No—she doesn’t need *less.* If anything, she needs *more*, because she feels *unwanted.* Edward has tried to step in. He loves both his girls, but something in Lauren has broken. She won’t listen. She insists everyone’s against her, that “Emily’s manipulating people,” that “everyone babies her.”
Meanwhile, my granddaughter is wasting away. Dimming. And more and more, she asks me the same question:
“Gran, can I live with you?”
And you know what? I’ve nearly made up my mind. Because I can’t wait any longer. Because I won’t watch my granddaughter wither under her own mother’s neglect. If Lauren doesn’t wake up, I’ll take Emily—even if it means going to court. A childhood steeped in this kind of pain leaves wounds that never heal. And I want more for her than just memories of being unloved. I want her to know *real* love. A grandmother’s love.
