**Diary Entry**
I always believed a mother should love her children equally—no favourites, no comparisons, no conditions. Childhood isn’t a competition for affection. Whenever I heard stories of parents pitting one child against another, I’d think, *That could never happen to us.* But now I’m living inside one of those stories. Only it’s not someone else’s—it’s mine. My daughter. My granddaughter. My heartache.
Laura was always ambitious, demanding, proud. She wasn’t interested in ordinary lads—only those with “prospects” and “security.” In the end, she married Edward, a former athlete who opened a gym in Manchester. My husband and I gave them a two-bedroom flat as a wedding gift and helped him land a decent job through connections. Everything seemed perfect: stability, care, a future secured.
A year later, Laura fell pregnant, and we were all over the moon. The pregnancy went smoothly, and she gave birth to a healthy girl—little Emily, named after my mother. Laura was a natural: breastfeeding, bedtime routines, pram walks. Emily was quiet, obedient, barely a whimper—even when teething. Laura was the ideal mum. We were so proud.
Then, six years on, everything changed.
Laura was pregnant again. This time, it was rough from the start—high blood pressure, gestational diabetes, migraines, morning sickness. She spent half the pregnancy in hospital. The birth was complicated, a C-section. Recovery took ages. Then came Sophie—just as sturdy and healthy as her sister. But Laura? She might as well have been a stranger.
For the first few months, Edward’s mum, Margaret, and I did what we could. I often took Emily to my place so Laura could focus on the baby. Margaret stayed over to help. We thought we were doing right by not interfering. Until the day I overheard Laura snap at Emily: *“Get out of my sight! I’m sick of you!”*
At first, I chalked it up to exhaustion. But it got worse. Laura stopped seeing Emily as her daughter—just a nuisance. Every little thing set her off: her hair, her questions, even her gaze. *“Leave me alone,” “I’ve got no time for you,” “You’re in the way.”* Words Emily heard daily. Once, under her breath: *“Life would’ve been easier without you first.”*
Emily’s only seven. At that age, a child’s heart is soft. She’s about to start school—she needs encouragement. Instead, she lives in a house where only one daughter is loved: little rosy-cheeked Sophie, always giggling. Emily? Emily doesn’t smile anymore.
She doesn’t play. Doesn’t draw. Just sits by the window or hides in a corner with a book. The worst? What she whispers to me, ice in my veins: *“Gran, why did Sophie have to be born? Things were better before. If she weren’t here, Mum would love me again.”*
I’ve tried talking to Laura. Gently, then firmly. Explained you can’t show a child they’re less loved. That the eldest needs warmth too. She brushes me off: *“Emily’s seven—she’s grown. She’s got everything. She doesn’t need coddling like the baby does.”*
No. She needs *more*—because she knows she’s “unwanted.” Edward’s tried stepping in. He adores both girls, but something in Laura’s broken. She won’t listen. Claims *“Emily’s manipulating us,”* that *“everyone takes her side.”*
Meanwhile, Emily’s wasting away. Fading. And lately, she keeps asking: *“Gran, can I live with you?”*
I’ve nearly made up my mind. Because this can’t go on. I won’t watch my granddaughter wither under her own mother’s neglect. If Laura doesn’t wake up, I’ll take Emily. Even if it means court. A childhood this wounded leaves scars that never heal. And I want more for her than just memories of being unloved. I want her to know real love. A grandmother’s love.
**Lesson learnt: Love isn’t a pie—slicing it smaller doesn’t mean there’s less to go around. Some hearts just need reminding.**
