**Diary Entry — 15th March**
I used to think how lucky I was—not just with my husband, but with his family, too. Thomas is kind, steady, dependable. His mother, Margaret, always seemed the picture of grace—polished, reserved, never one to overstep. She never made blunt remarks, only gentle suggestions, always wrapped in warmth. We got on beautifully, no petty squabbles, no tension. Foolishly, I thought this was what people meant by the “perfect mother-in-law,” the sort you read about in storybooks.
Thomas’s sister, Charlotte, lived in Edinburgh, married long before us but unhurried about children. “I want to live for myself first,” she’d say—career, travel, all that. So our children, Oliver and little Sophie, became the first grandchildren on his side.
Margaret and his father doted on them. Presents, holidays, endless photos framed on every surface—it felt like the closest, most loving family. Sophie even called her grandmother “Mama Two.” I was over the moon, watching how cherished they were. And Margaret often said, “You’ve made us so happy. Such wonderful children. Maybe one day Charlotte will give us the same joy.”
Then, last autumn, Charlotte phoned to say she was expecting. The house erupted—tears, calls to relatives, debates over names. Even Sophie raced around shrieking, “I’m getting a cousin soon!”
But cracks show brightest in moments of joy.
It started on an ordinary walk in the park. Oliver and I were feeding ducks when we ran into an old neighbour, Hannah. After pleasantries, she asked, “Has Charlotte had the baby yet?”
“Not yet—any day now,” I said, smiling.
Then she said it, words that turned my veins to ice: “Ah, well. Now your mother-in-law will have *real* grandchildren. Things will change, mark my words.”
“Real?” I echoed, stunned.
“Oh, you’re not her daughter, love. It’s different when it’s your own blood. You’ll see.”
I left in a daze. That casual remark carved a hole in me. Were my children “not real” because they came from her son, not her daughter? If the neighbours thought it—did Margaret?
I couldn’t shake it. Rewound every memory—Margaret cradling Sophie, playing snap with Oliver, calling them her “pride.” Had it all been… conditional?
Charlotte had a boy—James. And slowly, things shifted. Photos of Oliver and Sophie vanished from shelves, replaced by James. Invitations grew scarce. Conversations became, “Charlotte says…”, “James is so clever…”, “Oliver and Sophie could learn from him.”
I’m not jealous. But it *hurts*.
Because I tried. Because I believed in that love. Because my children are just as much her blood—even if it’s through Thomas. Now I sit here wondering: was Hannah right? Do grandparents truly rank their grandchildren—”real” and “lesser”?
I won’t stir trouble. But the bitterness lingers. The awful thought that love—even for children—comes with asterisks.
Has anyone else felt this? Or am I just seeing ghosts where there are none?
