The granddaughter is fading before my eyes. She’s beginning to hate both her mother and her younger sister. I’m terrified I’ll have to take her in, or this will end in tragedy.
I always believed a mother should love her children equally—no favorites, no comparisons, no conditions. Childhood isn’t a competition for affection. Whenever I heard stories about parents who pitted their children against each other, I’d think, *That will never touch my family.* Now, I’m living inside that story. Only it’s not someone else’s—it’s mine. My daughter. My granddaughter. My heartbreak.
Laura was always ambitious, exacting, proud. She had no interest in ordinary men—only those who were “promising,” “well-off.” In the end, she married Richard, a former athlete who opened a gym in Manchester. My husband and I gifted them a two-bedroom flat for the wedding and helped him land a good job through connections. Everything looked perfect—stability, security, a future.
A year later, Laura was pregnant, and the whole family celebrated. The pregnancy was smooth, and a healthy girl was born—Emily, named after my mother. Laura was a natural: breastfeeding, putting her to sleep, taking her for walks. Emily was a quiet, obedient child, barely crying even when teething. Laura was the perfect mother. We were all proud.
Then, six years later, everything changed.
Laura was pregnant again. From the start, it was difficult—high blood pressure, gestational diabetes, migraines, morning sickness. She spent six months of the pregnancy in hospital. The birth was complicated; a C-section. Recovery took ages. And then little Sophie arrived—just as strong and healthy as her sister. Yet Laura… it was as if she’d become a different person.
At first, Richard’s mother, Margaret, and I helped as much as we could. I took Emily more often so Laura could focus on the baby. Margaret stayed at their place. We thought we were doing the right thing—keeping out of the way. Until the day I overheard Laura snap at Emily:
“Get out of my sight! I’m sick of you!”
I told myself it was exhaustion, stress. But it only got worse. Laura no longer saw Emily as her daughter—just a nuisance. Everything irritated her—Emily’s hair, her expression, a simple question. *Leave me alone. Stop bothering me. I don’t have time for you.* These words became daily blows. Sometimes, worse:
“If it weren’t for you, things would be easier.”
And once, quiet but deliberate:
“Wish you’d never been born first…”
Emily’s only seven. At that age, a child is fragile. She’s about to start Year 3—she needs encouragement. Instead, she lives in a house where only one daughter is cherished: little, plump, giggling Sophie. And Emily? Emily doesn’t smile anymore.
She’s stopped playing. Stopped drawing. She just sits by the window or hides in a corner with a book. But worst of all are the words she whispers to me—words that chill me to the bone:
“Gran… why was Sophie even born? It was better before. If she weren’t here, Mum would love me again…”
I’ve tried talking to Laura. Gently, then firmly. Explaining that you can’t play favorites. That the older child still needs warmth. She brushes me off:
“Emily’s seven—she’s grown up. She has everything. She doesn’t need me cuddling her. The baby needs more.”
No. She doesn’t need *less*—she needs *more*, because she feels replaced. Richard has tried to step in. He adores both girls, but something in Laura has shattered. She won’t listen. Says everyone’s against her. That *Emily’s manipulating us*, that *everyone coddles her.*
Meanwhile, the girl is wasting away. Dimming. And more and more, she begs:
“Gran… can I come live with you?”
And I’ve nearly made my decision. Because I can’t wait any longer. Because I can’t watch my granddaughter be destroyed by her own mother’s indifference. If Laura doesn’t wake up, I’ll take Emily. Even if it means court. Because a childhood filled with this pain leaves wounds that never heal. And I want my granddaughter to remember more than being unloved. I want her to know real love. Mine.
