The Daughter-in-Law Demands Equal Love for the Children. But I Can’t…
I’m not the kind of woman who easily dismisses another’s fate. Life has taught me much. I raised two children on my own, weathered hardships and heartbreaks, and know the true cost of care—those sleepless nights with a feverish child, when you’re the only one by their side, and no one else matters. Yet some things cannot be forced. Love is one of them.
When my son Christopher announced he was marrying a woman with a child, I didn’t object. I supported him as a mother should, seeing how deeply in love he was. All I wanted was his happiness—to be loved and valued. What did it matter who she was or what her past held, so long as it was genuine? I never spoke ill of Olivia, his chosen one. A single mother raising a girl, abandoned by her husband—such women deserve understanding, not judgment. But…
Seven years have passed since they became a family. Emily, from Olivia’s first marriage, is now six, while our shared grandson, little Thomas, is only two. The girl is bright, lovely, and well-behaved. Still… she isn’t my blood. Yes, I do all I can. I bring gifts, equal in measure, careful never to show favoritism. I read Emily stories, play pretend with her, help with her schoolwork. But my heart? It belongs to Thomas. In him, I see my Christopher, echoes of my late husband. He fills me with such tenderness it steals my breath. With Emily… it’s kindness. Warm, respectful. But no more.
This is what sparked the rift with Olivia. She insists I must love Emily the same as Thomas—as if love could be summoned on command. But no, it doesn’t work that way. I won’t perform for an audience. I can help, I can be there, I can care—but I won’t pretend.
I blame Emily for nothing. She’s just a child caught in a difficult situation. But she has her own grandparents. One lives far away; the other vanished after the divorce. Is that my fault? Olivia has told me herself how her mother, even in retirement, rarely sees the children—how she turns them away without warning if they arrive empty-handed. So why am I the one under scrutiny?
Unlike Olivia’s mother, I’m always there. At a moment’s notice. I bring clothes, groceries, drive Emily to her lessons—all with love. But only the love I can give. No more. Don’t ask for it.
Olivia grows colder with each visit, eyeing every gift as if tallying its cost. *”Why does Emily only get a book while Thomas gets a toy?”* How can I explain that I chose the book with care, knowing Emily would adore it? But no—her answer is always the same: *”You don’t love my daughter.”* I try to gently remind her: love isn’t owed. It’s earned, or it blooms. It can’t be measured. I’m kind to Emily. Isn’t that enough?
I’ve spoken to Christopher too—calmly, without drama. I told him I bear no ill will toward Emily, that I try to be fair. But forcing myself to love equally? Impossible. If he and his wife keep insisting I feel what isn’t there, it’s better we see less of each other than live a lie. He understood. He’s a wise man. But torn between wife and mother, he hesitates, unsure where to stand.
As for me… I’m tired of defending the obvious. I’m a grandmother. A real one—but by blood, to only one. To the other, I’m a good, caring woman. That’s honest. That’s fair. That’s harmless. But demanding more? That’s cruel.
And you know what? I’m not wicked. I simply refuse to be shamed for what I cannot change. This is my heart. My conscience. My truth. And I won’t bend, even if it costs me my daughter-in-law’s regard.
Some bonds are chosen; others run deeper than choice. Neither should be forced.
