“Second Doesn’t Mean Second Best”
“Mum, I don’t want to go to Grandma’s!” whined seven-year-old Emily, squirming away from her mother’s grip. “She doesn’t love me! She only loves Aunt Sophie’s kids!”
“Emily, don’t be silly,” sighed Helen, buttoning her daughter’s coat. “Grandma loves all her grandchildren the same.”
“No, she doesn’t!” Emily stomped her foot. “Yesterday she gave Oliver ice cream and didn’t give me any!”
“Maybe because you had a sore throat?” Helen suggested.
“No! She just doesn’t like me because I’m not Dad’s real daughter!”
Helen froze, the hairbrush still in her hand. How did a seven-year-old know such things? Who had put that idea in her head?
“Emily, who told you that?”
“No one,” Emily turned to the window. “I worked it out. Oliver says his dad and my dad are brothers. But I know my dad isn’t my real dad. My real dad lives far away.”
Helen’s chest tightened. She sat beside Emily on the sofa.
“Listen carefully, sweetheart. Dad William *is* your real dad. He’s loved you since you were two. And Grandma Margaret loves you too.”
“Then why does she always praise Oliver and scold me?” Emily’s eyes glistened with tears.
Helen didn’t know what to say. Because Emily was right. Her mother-in-law *did* treat her differently from Oliver, her grandson by blood.
“Mum, we’re late,” William called from the doorway. “Em, hurry up or Grandma will be waiting.”
“I don’t *want* to see Grandma!” Emily wailed. “She doesn’t love me!”
William frowned at his wife. “What’s going on?”
“Later,” Helen whispered. “Emily, get dressed. We’re *all* going to Grandma’s.”
They walked through the park in silence. Emily trailed behind, sniffling. William carried groceries for his mother, while Helen dreaded the visit.
Margaret had always been difficult. When William brought Helen home—a widow with a toddler—his mother had been icy.
“Why take on another man’s child?” she’d said. “Find a proper girl and have your own.”
But William was stubborn. He loved Helen and Emily as his own. He married her, adopted Emily, and gave her his name.
Margaret tolerated it but never warmed to her “step-granddaughter”—especially after her elder son, James, gave her Oliver, a grandson by blood.
“Mum home?” William asked, ringing the bell.
“Come in, dear,” Margaret called, opening the door. She hugged William, kissed his cheek, then nodded at Helen. “Hello, Helen.”
“Hello, Margaret.”
“And where’s my granddaughter?” Margaret finally noticed Emily hiding behind William.
“Here,” Emily mumbled.
“Well, come in!” Margaret ushered them to the sitting room. “How are you all? William, you’ve lost weight!”
“Mum, I’m fine,” William laughed. “Helen feeds me well.”
“Good. And how’s school, Emily?”
“Fine,” Emily muttered.
“Emily, answer Grandma properly,” Helen chided.
“Oh, let her be,” Margaret waved a hand. “Oliver failed maths yesterday. James spent *hours* helping him.”
“Emily got top marks,” William said proudly.
“Good,” Margaret said flatly. “James is visiting today with Oliver. He misses his uncle.”
Helen saw Emily’s face fall. The girl knew Grandma’s excitement wasn’t for her.
“Mum, remember Emily’s poem last month?” William prompted.
“Mm, lovely,” Margaret nodded.
“Want to hear my new one?” Emily asked shyly.
“Go on.”
Emily stood tall and recited a spring poem, her voice bright. Helen watched her daughter try so hard—*too* hard—to please.
“Well done,” Margaret said when she finished. “Now wash your hands for lunch.”
As Emily left, Helen stayed to help in the kitchen.
“Margaret, can we talk? About Emily. She feels… treated differently.”
Margaret clattered a plate down. “Nonsense.”
“It’s not. She cried today, didn’t want to come.”
“And what do I do wrong? Feed her? Invite her?”
“You *know* the difference. When Oliver visits, you hug him, spoil him. With Emily, it’s like she’s a guest.”
“Because she *is*!” Margaret snapped. “Not my blood! She’s got her *own* grandparents!”
Helen’s throat burned. “So you’ll never love her?”
“Why should I? Have your *own* children, then we’ll talk.”
Emily burst in, trembling. “Mum, why does Grandma call me ‘step’? I’m her *granddaughter*!”
Helen froze. She’d heard everything.
“Go to Dad,” Helen said softly.
“No! I want to know why Grandma doesn’t love me!”
“Emily, I *do* love you,” Margaret faltered.
“Liar! You said I’m not *really* yours!”
Emily ran off sobbing. Helen glared at Margaret and followed.
In the lounge, William stroked Emily’s hair, baffled. “What happened?”
“Your mother called her a ‘step-grandchild’,” Helen said coldly.
William paled. “Mum, is this true?”
Margaret shuffled in, guilty. “William, I didn’t mean—”
“She said I’m *not family*,” Emily wept.
William stood, jaw tight. “How *could* you?”
“Son, I just—”
“Hurt a *child*?”
“Oliver’s my *real* grandson—she’s just—”
“She’s *my daughter*!” William roared. “Mine! Five years I’ve raised her!”
“But she’s not your *blood*—”
“What does *blood* matter?” he exploded. “She’s *ours*! She’s a *Bailey*!”
“We’re leaving,” Helen said, hugging Emily.
“Good,” William agreed. “Mum, until you see *both* as your grandchildren, don’t visit.”
Margaret reached out. “William, please—”
“I won’t let *anyone* hurt my kids. Even you.”
Outside, Emily clutched William’s hand. “Dad… do you *really* love me?”
“Of course, sweetheart. More than anything.”
“But why doesn’t Grandma?”
William knelt by a park bench. “Sometimes adults are foolish. They think love needs shared blood. It doesn’t. I *chose* you. I could’ve married someone else—had ‘my own’ kids. But I chose *you*.”
Emily sniffed. “If we have a baby… will you love them more?”
William laughed. “Never. Love isn’t a pie—it grows to fit everyone.”
Helen’s heart swelled with gratitude.
At home, Emily drew quietly in her room. Over tea, William sighed.
“I never thought Mum could be so cruel.”
“It’s hard for her,” Helen said.
“Not for *us*,” William said firmly. “We’re a *family*.”
Later, their neighbor, Mrs. Wilkins, popped in.
“Why’s Emily so glum?” she asked.
Helen explained. Mrs. Wilkins shook her head.
“Ridiculous! My sister raised her stepson like her own—while her daughter felt neglected! Love’s not about blood—it’s *choice*.”
That night, Emily showed Helen a drawing—a house with four figures holding hands: Dad, Mum, Emily, Grandma.
“For Grandma,” she whispered. “Maybe she’ll love me if I try harder.”
The next day, William took Emily to Margaret’s. They returned silent, Emily clutching her rejected card.
“She just… put it aside,” William muttered.
Helen hugged Emily. “Some hearts take time to open. It’s *her* loss, darling.”
That evening, James called.
“Mum’s broken up about yesterday. She wants to apologize.”
Helen hesitated. “If she hurts Emily again—”
“She won’t.”
Margaret arrived the next day, gifts in hand.
“Emily… I’m sorry,” she choked. “You *are* my granddaughter.”
Emily eyed her warily. “Like Oliver?”
Margaret swallowed. “Yes.”
Emily accepted the doll and chocolates but didn’t beam as expected.
“Promise you won’t call me ‘step’ again?”
“Never,” Margaret vowed.
Emily studied her, then hugged her. “Okay. I love you, Grandma.”
Margaret wept. “Forgive this silly old woman.”
William kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Mum.”
From then on, Margaret changed. She invited Emily over equally, praised her grades, even bragged—
“My cleverest granddaughter!”
One evening, Emily grinned at Helen.
“Grandma *reallyloves me now—I guess love isn’t just about who you’re born to, but who chooses to stay.
