“My daughter-in-law demands I love the children equally. But I just can’t…”
I’m not the sort of woman who easily dismisses someone else’s life story. Mine’s taught me a lot. I raised two children on my own, went through plenty of hardships and heartaches, and I know the true cost of care—those endless nights with a feverish child, just you and them, no one else needed. But some things can’t be forced. Love is one of them.
When my son William said he was marrying a woman who already had a child, I didn’t object. I supported him—as a mother should—because I could see he was truly in love. What mattered to me? His happiness. That he loved and was loved in return. As for the past… well, as long as it was real, that’s all that mattered. I never said a word against Emily, his wife. A single mum, her husband ran off—women like that deserve understanding, not judgment. But…
Seven years on, they’re a family now. Sophie, Emily’s little girl, is six, and our grandson Oliver is just two. Sophie’s a bright, sweet, well-behaved child. But still… she’s not my blood. Yes, I do everything I can. Yes, I bring gifts—always fair, never a penny’s difference between them. Yes, I’ll read Sophie a story, play with her, help with her homework. But my heart? It’s with Oliver. In him, I see my William, traces of my late husband. He makes my heart swell till I can barely breathe—he’s *mine*. With Sophie? It’s kindness. Warm, respectful. But it’s not the same.
That’s what sparked the row with Emily. She insists I love Sophie just like I love Oliver. As if love’s a switch you can flip on command. Sorry, love, but it doesn’t work like that. I won’t put on an act. I’ll help, I’ll be there—but I won’t fake what isn’t there.
I don’t blame Sophie. She’s just a child caught in the middle. But she’s got her own grandmas. One lives miles away, the other’s been MIA since the divorce—not my fault. Emily’s told me herself how her mum’s too busy working her pension job to have the kids over, how she’ll turn them away if they don’t bring food and spare clothes. So why am *I* the villain?
Unlike her mum, I’m always there. First call, I’m on it—dropping off clothes, doing the food shop, taking Sophie to the dance club. And I do it with love. The love I *can* give. That’s all. Don’t ask for more.
Lately, Emily’s gone frosty. She scrutinises every gift, tallying costs in her head. *“Why’s Sophie just getting a book while Oliver gets a toy lorry?”* How do I explain that I picked the book with care, something Sophie *wanted*? But no—her refrain is, *“You don’t love my daughter.”* I’ve tried to soften it: love isn’t owed. It’s earned, or it grows. It can’t be balanced like a ledger. I’m good to Sophie. Isn’t that enough?
I’ve talked to William, too—calmly, no drama. Told him I’ve nothing against Sophie, that I try. But forcing equal love? I can’t. And if he and Emily keep demanding feelings that aren’t there, it’s better we see less of each other than pretend. He gets it. He’s a sensible lad. But he’s stuck between his wife and his mum, torn.
And me? I’m tired of justifying the obvious. I’m a grandma. A real one—to one child. To the other? I’m a decent, caring adult. That’s honest. That’s fair. That’s *harmless*. But asking for more? That’s cruel.
And here’s the thing—I’m not wicked. I just won’t be shamed for not crossing a line I can’t cross. This is my heart. My conscience. My truth. And I’ll stand by it, even if it costs me the relationship with my daughter-in-law.
