The kitchen smelled of shepherd’s pie when the front door swung open—Julia’s daughters were home. They’d been staying with their grandmother and should’ve been happy. Instead, their faces were painted with resentment.
“Mum, Gran doesn’t love us!” chorused Lily and Rosie in unison.
Julia stepped into the hallway, wiping her hands on a tea towel.
“Why d’you say that?”
The girls exchanged a glance, and one of them hesitantly began. Gran let Alfie and Sophie—their aunt’s kids—run wild, snack on biscuits, and basically do as they pleased. But for Lily and Rosie? No noise, no sweets, not even a flake of chocolate. She’d walk Alfie and Sophie to the bus stop, but for them? Just a door slammed shut behind them.
Julia froze. She’d always known her mother-in-law, Margaret, wasn’t the warmest woman, but she never imagined it had gone this far.
Their relationship had always been… politely distant. Not hostile, but hardly close. Things shifted when her husband’s sister, Beatrice, had kids. Gran was utterly smitten. She’d gush for hours about how clever they were, how like their mother, how perfect.
When Julia and her husband, James, had twins, Margaret just shrugged.
“Two at once? Bit much, isn’t it? I can’t manage two.”
“Didn’t ask you to,” James shot back.
“Beatrice could use the help more. Hers are barely a year apart!”
“And ours aren’t children?” Julia snapped.
“A brother’s duty is to help his sister,” Margaret retorted, icy as a January morning.
That was when Julia knew she’d get no support. Thank goodness her own mum lived nearby, trekking across town to help whenever she could.
Margaret, meanwhile, kept doting on Alfie and Sophie, never missing a chance to say, “Now these are proper grandchildren!”
As for Lily and Rosie? If asked, she’d wave a hand. “Oh, they’re… getting by.”
Eventually, even neighbours noticed. One day, Margaret muttered, “Who’s to say they’re even my granddaughters? Just because they’ve got my son’s name”—words that somehow reached James. He stormed over, demanding an explanation. She backpedalled, but not convincingly.
Every visit left Julia and James feeling like they’d swallowed a spoonful of vinegar. Constant complaints: the girls were too loud, ate too many sweets, gave Gran headaches. And always, always, the comparison to the “perfect” cousins.
When Alfie and Sophie left, Margaret would see them off with gifts and a proper goodbye. But Lily and Rosie? She sent them through the abandoned lot where stray dogs roamed. Six years old. Alone. No warning. That was the last straw.
James rang his mother.
“Mum, are you unwell?”
“What on earth d’you mean?”
“Then why did you send the girls through that wasteland? It’s full of strays!”
“Children need independence.”
“They’re six! You’d never let Alfie and Sophie go alone!”
“How dare you accuse me! This is your wife’s doing—”
And she hung up.
Years passed. The twins were now in Year 6. Margaret fell ill. Suddenly, she remembered her “spare” granddaughters. She called James.
“Send Lily and Rosie round to help tidy up. What sort of grandchildren don’t even visit?”
“Think hard about why they don’t,” James replied evenly. “You’ve got favourites—ask them.”
Fuming, Margaret rang Julia.
“You owe me this! I’m their grandmother!”
“You’ve not acted like one in years. You’ve got a daughter and the ‘right’ grandchildren. Rely on them.”
Sophie refused: “Too much homework.” Alfie said, “I’m not a maid.” And so, Margaret sat alone in silence. Only then did she realise love shouldn’t come with conditions.
But by then, it was far too late.
