My granddaughter is fading right before my eyes. She’s started hating both her mum and her little sister, and honestly, I’m terrified I might have to take her in myself—or else this’ll end in tragedy.
I’ve always believed a mother should love all her kids the same—no favourites, no comparisons, no “ifs.” Childhood isn’t some contest for affection. Whenever I’d hear stories about parents picking one kid over another, I’d think, “That’ll never be me.” And now here I am, stuck in the middle of it. Only it’s not someone else’s mess—it’s *my* family. My daughter. My granddaughter. My heartache.
Laura was always ambitious, no-nonsense, proud. She wasn’t interested in just any bloke—only the ones with “potential,” the ones who were “settled.” In the end, she married James, an ex-athlete who opened his own gym in Manchester. Me and my husband helped them out—gave them a nice two-bed flat as a wedding gift, even pulled a few strings with some old mates to get them sorted. Everything seemed perfect—steady, secure, like something out of a dream.
A year later, Laura got pregnant, and we were all over the moon. Had an easy pregnancy, gave birth to a healthy little girl—Emily, named after my own mum. Laura was brilliant with her—breastfeeding, nappy changes, walks in the park. Emily was such a quiet, easy baby—barely cried, even when she was teething. Laura was the perfect mum. We were all so proud.
Then, six years later, everything changed.
Laura got pregnant again. This time, it was rough from the start—high blood pressure, sugar levels all over, migraines, morning sickness that never quit. Spent half the pregnancy in hospital. Ended up needing a C-section, took ages to recover. And then little Sophie came along—just as healthy as her big sister. But Laura? It was like she’d been swapped out for someone else.
For the first few months, me and James’s mum, Margaret, did what we could to help. I’d take Emily over to mine so Laura could focus on the baby. Margaret would stay at theirs. We thought we were doing the right thing—giving her space. But then one day, I overheard Laura snap at Emily:
“Just get out of my sight! I’m *sick* of you!”
At first, I put it down to exhaustion, nerves. But it only got worse. It was like Laura didn’t even see Emily as her daughter anymore—just a nuisance. The slightest thing would set her off—Emily’s hair, the way she looked at her, just *asking* a question. “Piss off,” “Not now,” “I don’t have time for you”—Emily heard it every single day. Sometimes even:
“Life would’ve been easier if it weren’t for you.”
And once, quiet but sharp:
“Wish you’d never been born first…”
Emily’s only *seven*. At that age, kids are so fragile. She’s about to start Year 3, and what she needs is *support*. Instead, she’s stuck in a house where only one daughter’s the favourite—little Sophie, all giggles and chubby cheeks. And Emily? Emily doesn’t smile anymore.
She’s stopped playing. Stopped drawing. Just sits by the window or hides in a corner with a book. But the worst part? The things she says to me that make my blood run cold:
“Gran, why did Sophie have to be born? It was better without her. If she wasn’t here, Mum would love me again…”
I’ve tried talking to Laura. More than once—gently at first, then harder. Told her this isn’t right. You can’t let kids think one’s loved more than the other. That the oldest needs warmth too. But she just brushes me off:
“Emily’s seven, she’s *big* now. She’s got everything. She doesn’t need me coddling her. The baby needs more.”
No—she doesn’t need *less*, she might even need *more*, because she *knows* she’s become “unwanted.” James has tried stepping in. He adores both his girls, but it’s like something’s snapped in Laura. She won’t listen. Says everyone’s against her. That “Emily’s playing the victim,” that “everyone babies her.”
Meanwhile, that little girl’s wasting away. Dimming. And more and more, she whispers the same thing:
“Gran, can I come live with you?”
And you know what? I think I’m ready to say yes. Because we can’t wait any longer. Because I can’t stand watching my own granddaughter wither under her own mother’s indifference. If Laura doesn’t wake up—I’ll take Emily. Even if I have to fight for it in court. Because growing up with this kind of hurt? That’s a wound that never heals. And I *refuse* to let my granddaughter’s childhood be nothing but the memory of being unloved. She deserves *real* love. The kind only a gran can give.
