“My Daughter-in-Law Demands Equal Love for the Children. But I Just Can’t…”
I’m not the sort of woman who lightly dismisses another’s fate. Life has taught me much. I raised two children on my own, weathered hardships and heartaches, and learned the true meaning of care—those sleepless nights when a feverish child needs you and no one else will do. Still, some things can’t be forced. Love is one of them.
When my son, James, announced he was marrying a woman with a child from a previous marriage, I didn’t object. I supported him, as a mother should—I could see he was truly in love. What mattered most to me was his happiness. That he was loved and valued. As for the rest? Let it be, so long as it’s genuine. I never spoke a cross word about Emily, his chosen bride. A single mother raising a little girl, her husband having run off—women like that shouldn’t be judged, only understood. But…
Seven years have passed since they became a family. Lily, the daughter from Emily’s first marriage, is now six, and our shared grandson, Oliver, is just two. Lily’s a bright, lovely, well-behaved girl. Still… she isn’t my blood. Yes, I do everything I can. I bring gifts, always fair, never letting either child feel slighted. I’ll read to Lily, play pretend with her, help with her schoolwork. But my heart belongs to Oliver. In him, I see my James, echoes of my late husband. The very sight of him fills me with warmth—he’s *mine*. With Lily? It’s kindness. Respect. But no more.
That’s what started the row with Emily. She insists I must love Lily the same as Oliver. As if love could be summoned on command. No, my dear, it doesn’t work that way. I’m no actress. I’ll help, I’ll be there, I’ll care—but I won’t pretend.
I don’t blame Lily for any of this. She’s just a child caught in a hard situation. But she has her own grandmothers—one lives far off, the other vanished after the divorce. Emily’s complained often enough about how her own mother, even in retirement, barely sees the kids, how she turns them away without warning if they don’t bring food or spare clothes. So why am *I* the one being judged?
Unlike her mother, I’m always here. At a moment’s notice. Clothes, groceries, driving Lily to her dance class—all done with love. The love I *can* give. No more. Don’t ask it of me.
Emily’s grown colder lately. She scrutinizes every gift, as though tallying pounds spent. *Why does Oliver get a toy car while Lily gets a book?* How can I explain that I chose the book with care, knowing Lily would adore it? But no—her answer’s always the same: *You don’t love my daughter.* I’ve tried to tell her gently—love isn’t owed. It’s earned, or it grows. It can’t be measured. I’m kind to Lily. Isn’t that enough?
I’ve spoken to James, too. Calmly, no drama. Told him I’ve nothing against Lily, that I do my best. But I can’t *force* equal love. If he and Emily keep demanding feelings that aren’t there, it’s better we see less of each other than live a lie. He understood—he’s a good lad. But now he’s caught between us, torn, unsure where to stand.
As for me? I’m tired of explaining what should be plain. I *am* a grandmother—properly, deeply—to one child. To the other, I’m a kindly grown-up. That’s honest. That’s fair. That’s harmless. But to expect more? That’s cruel.
And you know what? I’m not wicked. I just refuse to be shamed for not betraying my own heart. This is *my* truth. And I won’t bend it, even if it costs me my place in Emily’s life.
