The kitchen smelled of roast beef when the front door swung open—Julia’s daughters were back from their visit to their grandmother’s. They should have been happy, but instead, their faces were clouded with hurt.
“Mum, Grandma doesn’t love us!” piped up Emily and Sophie in unison.
Julia stepped into the hallway, drying her hands on a tea towel.
“Why would you say that?”
The girls exchanged glances before one hesitantly began recounting their visit. Grandma had let George and Charlotte—their aunt’s children—run wild, eat sweets, and jump around as they pleased. But they were scolded for making noise, forbidden from touching chocolate, and sent off without so much as a wave. Their cousins even got a proper goodbye, while the door just shut behind them.
Julia froze. She knew her mother-in-law, Margaret, wasn’t the warmest woman, but she hadn’t realised how deep the favouritism ran.
Their relationship had always been civil—neither close nor hostile. That changed when Julia’s sister-in-law, Victoria, had her children. From then on, Margaret was utterly smitten. She’d gush for hours about how clever they were, how much they took after their mother.
When Julia and her husband, George, welcomed their twins, Margaret merely shrugged.
“Two at once? Bit of a handful, isn’t it? I couldn’t manage both.”
“We’re not asking you to,” George retorted.
“Victoria could’ve used the help—her two are so close in age…”
“And ours aren’t worth it?” Julia snapped.
“A brother’s duty is to his sister,” Margaret said coldly.
That’s when Julia knew there’d be no support. Thankfully, her own mother was there, crossing town to help however she could.
Margaret, meanwhile, never missed a chance to praise George and Charlotte. “Now these are my daughter’s grandchildren!” she’d declare.
As for her son’s children? If anyone asked, she’d wave them off. “Oh, they’re alright…”
Even friends noticed. Once, in a fit of temper, Margaret muttered, “Who’s to say they’re even my granddaughters? They’ve only got their father’s name.” Those words reached George, and he was furious. He stormed over, demanding an explanation. She backtracked, but the damage was done.
Every visit left a bitter taste. Constant complaints—the girls were too loud, sneaking sweets, giving her headaches—always followed by comparisons to her “perfect” grandchildren.
When George and Charlotte left, Margaret would walk them to the bus stop, handing them gifts. But when Emily and Sophie departed, she sent them through a vacant lot where stray dogs roamed. Six years old. Alone. No warning. That was the final straw.
George called his mother.
“Mum, are you unwell?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Then why send the kids through the wasteland alone? There are dogs out there!”
“Children need to learn independence.”
“They’re six! You’d never let Victoria’s kids walk alone!”
“How dare you accuse me? This is all your wife’s doing—”
And she hung up.
Years passed. The girls grew; by year six, they hardly remembered their grandmother. Then Margaret fell ill. Suddenly, she remembered her “spare” grandchildren. She rang George.
“Send Emily and Sophie over. They ought to help their grandmother. What sort of children neglect family?”
“Think hard about why they don’t visit,” George replied evenly. “You’ve got your favourites—ask them.”
Fuming, Margaret called Julia.
“You must make them come! I’m their grandmother!”
“You stopped calling them that long ago. You’ve got a daughter and the ‘right’ grandchildren. Depend on them.”
Charlotte refused—”Too much schoolwork, Grandma.” George snapped, “I’m not a cleaner.” Left in silence, Margaret finally understood: love cannot be rationed. But by then, it was too late.
