My granddaughter is fading before my eyes. She’s starting to hate both her mother and her younger sister. I’m terrified I’ll have to take her in myself, or this will end in tragedy.
I’ve always believed a mother should love her children equally—no favourites, no comparisons, no conditions. Childhood isn’t a competition for affection. Whenever I heard stories about parents labelling their kids as “the golden one” or “the disappointment,” I’d think, *That could never happen to me.* Now, I’m living inside one of those stories. Only it’s not someone else’s—it’s my family. My daughter. My granddaughter. My heartbreak.
Laura was always ambitious, demanding, proud. She wasn’t interested in ordinary boys—only those with “potential” and “security.” In the end, she married Edward, a former athlete who opened his own gym in Manchester. My husband and I gifted them a two-bedroom flat for the wedding and helped secure her a good job through our connections. Everything seemed perfect—stability, care, a bright future.
A year later, Laura got pregnant, and the whole family was overjoyed. The pregnancy went smoothly, and a healthy girl—Emily, named after my mother—was born. Laura handled motherhood beautifully: breastfeeding, bedtime routines, walks in the park. Emily was calm, obedient, hardly ever cried—even when teething. Laura was the perfect mum. We were all so proud.
Then, six years later, everything changed.
Laura fell 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 ages. Then little Sophie arrived—just as healthy as her sister. But Laura… it was like she’d become a different person.
For the first few months, Edward’s mum, Margaret, and I helped however we could. I often took Emily to stay with me so Laura could focus on the baby. Margaret stayed over to help at their place. We thought we were doing the right thing by not interfering. But one day, I overheard Laura snap at Emily:
*”Get out of my sight! I’m sick of you!”*
At first, I put it down to exhaustion, stress. But it only got worse. Laura seemed to stop seeing Emily as her daughter—just a nuisance. She’d flare up over the smallest things: her hair, her expression, a simple question. *”Go away,” “Don’t bother me,” “I haven’t got time for you”*—words Emily heard daily. Sometimes even:
*”If it weren’t for you, things would be easier.”*
And once, quiet but clear:
*”I wish you’d never been born first…”*
Emily’s only seven. At that age, a child is so fragile. She’s about to start primary school, and she needs support. Instead, she lives in a house where only one daughter is loved—the younger one. Sweet, chubby, giggly Sophie. And Emily? Emily doesn’t smile anymore.
She’s stopped playing. Stopped drawing. She just sits by the window or hides in a corner with a book. But the worst part? The things she says to me now—words that make my blood run cold:
*”Gran, why was Sophie even born? Things were better without her. If she wasn’t here, Mum would love me again…”*
I’ve tried talking to Laura. More than once. Gently at first, then firmer. I’ve told her this isn’t right. That children shouldn’t feel one is loved more than the other. That the oldest needs warmth too. She brushes me off:
*”Emily’s seven—she’s practically grown. She’s got everything. She doesn’t need cuddles. The baby needs more.”*
No! She doesn’t need *less*—if anything, she needs *more*, because she can feel she’s become “unwanted.” Edward’s tried stepping in. He adores both his girls, but something in Laura has broken. She won’t listen. Says everyone’s against her. That *”Emily’s manipulating”*, that *”everyone babies her.”*
Meanwhile, my granddaughter is wasting away. Dimming. And more and more, she asks the same question:
*”Gran, can I live with you?”*
And you know what? I’m almost ready to say yes. Because we can’t wait any longer. Because I can’t stand watching my granddaughter be crushed by her own mother’s indifference. If Laura doesn’t wake up, I’ll take Emily. Even if it means going to court. Because a childhood this painful leaves wounds that never heal. And I want my granddaughter to know more than just the memory of being unloved. I want her to have something real. Something lasting. A grandmother’s love.
