**A Grandmother’s Divided Love**
The smell of shepherd’s pie filled the kitchen when the front door swung open—my daughters were home. They’d been staying with their grandmother and should’ve been happy. Instead, their faces were clouded with hurt.
“Mum, Gran doesn’t love us!” Emily and Grace said in unison.
I stepped into the hallway, drying my hands on a tea towel.
“Why would you say that?”
The girls exchanged glances, and one hesitantly began. Gran let Oliver and Charlotte—Aunt Margaret’s children—run wild, eat whatever they liked. But for them? No noise, no sweets, no chocolate. She even walked the others to the bus stop, but for my girls? Just a slammed door behind them.
My chest tightened. I knew my mother-in-law, Mabel Spencer, wasn’t the warmest woman, but I hadn’t realised it had gone this far.
Our relationship had always been civil—neither close nor hostile. But everything changed when my husband’s sister, Margaret, had children. Gran was smitten. She’d gush for hours about how clever they were, how much they took after their mother.
When my husband, Oliver, and I had twins, Mabel just shrugged.
“Two at once? Bit much, isn’t it? I couldn’t handle both.”
“We’re not asking you to,” Oliver snapped.
“Margaret could use the help—hers are so close in age.”
“And ours aren’t our children?” I couldn’t hold back.
“A brother ought to support his sister,” she said coolly.
That’s when I knew we’d get no kindness from her. Thank goodness my own mum was there, travelling across London to help however she could.
Meanwhile, Mabel doted on Oliver and Charlotte, never missing a chance to boast, “Now these are the grandchildren my daughter gave me!”
As for our girls? If asked, she’d just wave a hand. “Oh, they’re… managing.”
Even friends noticed the favouritism. Once, in a fit of bitterness, Mabel muttered, “Who even knows if they’re really my granddaughters, even if they carry my son’s name.” Word got back to Oliver. He was livid—stormed over, demanding an explanation. She backpedalled, but the damage was done.
Every visit left us drained. Endless complaints—the girls were too loud, sneaked sweets, gave her headaches—always comparing them to her “perfect” grandchildren.
Then, one day, after Oliver and Charlotte left, Gran personally saw them off with gifts. But Emily and Grace? She sent them alone across the wasteland near Bow where stray dogs roamed. Six years old. No warning. That was the final straw.
Oliver called her.
“Mum, are you unwell?”
“What nonsense!”
“Then why send them through there alone? It’s dodgy!”
“They need to learn independence.”
“They’re *six*! You’d never let Margaret’s kids do that!”
“Are you *daring* to question me? This is all your wife’s doing—”
And she hung up.
Years passed. The girls grew; they’re in Year 7 now. Then Mabel fell ill—suddenly remembered her “spare” granddaughters. She rang Oliver.
“Send Emily and Grace over. They should tidy up for me. What sort of grandchildren don’t help?”
“Remember why they don’t visit,” he said evenly. “You’ve got your favourites—ask *them*.”
Furious, she called me.
“You *must* make them come! I’m their grandmother!”
“You stopped acting like one long ago. You’ve got Margaret and the ‘right’ grandchildren. Rely on *them*.”
Charlotte refused—”Too much homework, Gran.” Oliver said, “I’m not your maid.”
So Mabel sat alone, in silence. Only then did she understand: love can’t be divided.
But by then, it was too late.
