**The Offended Granddaughters**
When Emily returned home with her daughters, the girls burst into tears the moment they stepped inside. They had just come back from their grandmother’s house—and they were utterly crushed.
“Mum, Gran doesn’t love us…” they sobbed in unison. “She lets Oliver and Charlotte do *whatever* they want, but us? Nothing! They get presents, sweets, and we just get ‘don’t touch that,’ ‘stop making noise,’ ‘go play in the other room.’”
Emily pressed her lips together. Her heart ached. She’d felt this sting before, but hearing it from her own children cut deeper.
Her mother-in-law, Margaret, had never shown much warmth toward Emily’s girls. But her own daughter’s children—Oliver and Charlotte—could do no wrong. The golden grandchildren got the world; the others got scraps. Or worse.
For years, Emily had tried to shrug it off. She told herself Gran was just set in her ways, that she had a difficult temperament. But with time, the truth became painfully clear: in Margaret’s eyes, grandchildren were either “hers” or “not hers.” And even shared blood meant little if it came from the “wrong” daughter-in-law.
The girls recounted how Gran had scolded them for laughing too loudly—only to let Oliver race toy cars across the floor five minutes later, making ten times the noise. Or how she’d served cake to “the guests” while her own granddaughters got nothing but a cup of tea.
The worst came when Gran sent Emily’s girls home alone. Across a chilly field, in the fading light. They were seven. Terrified of stray dogs, shivering in the cold. Margaret hadn’t even bothered to ring their parents.
When Emily found out, she couldn’t hold back her tears. She called her mother-in-law, who only scoffed:
“They ought to learn independence. At their age, I was running errands all over town.”
That was the first time Emily’s husband, James, truly lost his temper with his mother. He didn’t shout. He just said, quietly, “Mum, if you can’t be a grandmother to *all* your grandchildren, then don’t be one at all.”
Years passed. The girls grew up—bright, kind, and long past begging to visit Gran. Margaret, meanwhile, grew old. Doctors visited more often than family; pillboxes replaced sweet tins; the telly became her only company.
When she tried summoning the grandchildren, Oliver was “too busy,” and Charlotte “had exams.” So, at last, she remembered the “not hers.”
“Have them come round,” she said. “They can tidy up, fetch the shopping. I *am* their grandmother, after all…”
Emily listened. Paused. Then replied, “Are you? And what are they to *you*? Remember what you told them? ‘I didn’t ask for you.’ Well, they won’t ask for you either. Some lessons stick.”
The line went quiet. And in Margaret’s house, the silence was finally real. And utterly, hopelessly, hers.
