The Resentful Granddaughters
When Emily got home with her daughters, the girls burst into tears right away. They’d just come back from their grandma’s—and they were absolutely heartbroken.
“Mum, Grandma doesn’t love us…” they sobbed in unison. “She lets Oliver and Sophie get away with everything, but we’re not allowed to do anything! They get presents and sweets, and all we get is ‘Don’t touch that,’ ‘Stop being a nuisance,’ ‘Go play in another room.'”
Emily pressed her lips together. Her chest ached. She’d felt this way herself so many times before, but hearing it from her own children was especially hard.
Her mother-in-law, Margaret, had never shown much affection for Emily’s girls. But her own daughter’s children—Oliver and Sophie—were the apples of her eye. They got the world; everyone else got scraps. Or worse.
For a while, Emily tried not to let it bother her. She told herself Grandma was just set in her ways, that life hadn’t been easy for her. But as the years went by, it became clearer: to Margaret, there were “real” grandchildren and “the others.” Even family ties didn’t count if they came from “the wrong woman.”
The girls told her how Grandma had scolded them for laughing too loud—only to let Oliver race toy cars across the floor minutes later, even though he made twice the noise. Or how she’d brought out a cake for “the guests,” but her own granddaughters only got tea.
The worst moment came when Grandma sent Emily’s girls home alone. Across a bitterly cold field, in the dark. They were only seven—terrified of stray dogs, shivering from the cold. Margaret hadn’t even bothered to call their parents.
When Emily found out, she couldn’t hold back her tears. She called her mother-in-law, who just scoffed:
“They need to grow up. I was running errands by myself at their age.”
After that phone call, Emily’s husband, James, had his first real falling-out with his mum. He didn’t shout. Just said quietly,
“Mum, if you can’t be a grandmother to all of them, then don’t be one at all.”
Years passed. The girls grew up—kind, clever, and long past asking to visit Grandma. And Margaret? She got older. Doctors’ visits replaced outings, pills took the place of sweets, and the telly became her only company.
She tried reaching out to the grandchildren. Called Oliver—he was “too busy.” Sophie had “too much studying.” So she remembered the “others.”
“Have them come over, tidy up a bit, bring some shopping. I’m their grandmother, aren’t I?”
Emily listened, then said calmly,
“Their grandmother? And what are you to them? Remember what you told them—’I never asked for you’? Well, they won’t come. Because they remember it too well.”
The line went quiet. And in Grandma’s house, the silence settled in for good. This time, it was real. And it was hopeless.
