**Second Doesn’t Mean Less**
“Mum, I don’t want to go to Gran’s!” wailed seven-year-old Emily, twisting away from her mother’s grasp. “She doesn’t love me! She only loves Aunt Charlotte’s Tom!”
“Don’t be silly, Emily,” sighed Helen, buttoning up her daughter’s coat. “Your grandmother loves all her grandchildren the same.”
“That’s not true!” Emily stomped her foot. “Yesterday she gave Tom an ice cream, but not me!”
“Perhaps you had a sore throat?” Helen offered weakly.
“No! She just doesn’t love me because I’m not Dad’s real daughter!”
Helen froze, the hairbrush still in her hand. How could a child so young know such things? Who had told her?
“Emily, who said that to you?”
“No one,” the girl muttered, turning to the window. “I figured it out. Tom says his dad and my dad are brothers. But I know my dad isn’t really my dad. My real dad lives far away.”
Helen’s heart clenched. She sat beside Emily on the sofa.
“Listen to me, love. Dad William *is* your real dad. He’s loved you since you were two. And Gran Margaret loves you too.”
“Then why does she always praise Tom and scold me?” Tears glistened in Emily’s eyes.
Helen had no answer. Because Emily was right. Her mother-in-law *did* treat her differently from Tom, her eldest son’s child.
“Helen, we’re late,” William called from the doorway. “Em, hurry up—Gran’s waiting.”
“I don’t want to see Gran!” Emily burst into tears again. “She hates me!”
William looked helplessly at his wife. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ll explain later,” Helen murmured. “Emily, get your coat. We’re *all* going to Gran’s.”
They walked through the park in silence. Emily trailed behind, sniffling. William carried groceries for his mother, while Helen dreaded the visit.
Margaret had always been difficult. When William brought Helen home with two-year-old Emily, his mother had greeted them coldly.
“Why take on another man’s child?” she’d said. “Find a proper girl and have your own.”
But William was stubborn. He loved Helen—and Emily as his own. He married, adopted the girl, and gave her his name.
Margaret tolerated it but never warmed to Emily. Especially after her eldest, Oliver, gave her a “real” grandson—Tom.
“Mum home?” William asked, knocking.
“Come in, come in,” came the reply.
Margaret opened the door and embraced her son. “William, I’ve missed you!” She kissed his cheek, then nodded to Helen. “Hello, dear.”
“Hello, Margaret.”
“And where’s my granddaughter?” Margaret finally noticed Emily hiding behind her father.
“Here,” Emily whispered.
“Well, don’t dawdle!” Margaret ushered them inside. “How are you all? William, you’ve lost weight!”
“No, Mum, I’m fine,” William laughed. “Helen feeds me well.”
“Good. And how’s school, Emily?”
“Fine,” the girl mumbled.
“Emily, answer properly,” Helen chided.
“Oh, leave her,” Margaret waved a hand. “Children will be children. Tom brought home a dreadful mark in maths yesterday. Oliver sat with him for hours.”
“Emily gets top marks in maths,” William said proudly.
“Well done,” Margaret said flatly. “Oliver’s bringing Tom round today. He misses his uncle.”
Helen saw Emily’s face fall. The girl knew Gran was happier to see one grandchild than the other.
“Mum, remember when Emily recited that poem for you last month?” William asked.
“Yes, quite nice,” Margaret nodded.
“Would you like to hear another?” Emily asked shyly.
“Go on, then.”
Emily stood straight and recited a spring poem, her voice clear. Helen watched her daughter’s effort—how badly she wanted to be loved.
“Lovely,” Margaret said when she finished. “Now wash up—lunch is ready.”
Emily trudged off, while Helen stayed to help.
“Margaret, may I speak plainly?” Helen ventured.
“About?”
“Emily. She knows you treat her differently.”
Margaret set a plate down sharply. “Nonsense.”
“It’s true. She cried today because she didn’t want to come.”
“What have I *done*?” Margaret turned. “I feed her, don’t I?”
“But you *know* the difference. When Tom visits, you fuss over him. Emily feels like an outsider.”
“Because she *is*!” Margaret snapped. “I didn’t raise her! She’s got her own grandmother!”
“Margaret, Emily isn’t to blame for not being William’s by blood. She’s been your granddaughter for *five years*.”
“Paperwork means nothing,” Margaret scoffed. “Blood’s blood. Tom’s my flesh and blood. That one’s just… a charity case.”
Helen’s throat tightened.
“So you’ll *never* love her?”
“Why should I? Let her mother’s family dote on her.”
Just then, Emily ran in.
“Mum, why does Gran call me a charity case?” Her voice trembled. “I’m her *granddaughter*!”
Helen realised she’d heard everything. Margaret flushed.
“Emily, go to your father,” Helen said.
“No! I want to know why Gran doesn’t love me!”
“Emily, I *do* love you,” Margaret insisted.
“Liar! You said I’m not family! But I *am* Dad’s daughter!”
Sobbing, Emily fled. Helen shot Margaret a glare and followed.
In the parlour, Emily wept into William’s shoulder. He stroked her hair, bewildered.
“What happened?”
“Your mother called Emily a charity case,” Helen said coldly.
William paled. “Mum, is this true?”
Margaret emerged, chastened. “William, I didn’t mean—”
“Gran said I’m not family,” Emily hiccupped. “That I have my *own* gran.”
William stood. Helen saw his jaw tighten.
“Mum, *how could you*?”
“Son, I only—”
“Only *what*? Hurt a *child*?”
“William, you don’t understand. Tom’s my *real* grandson, she’s—”
“She’s *what*?” William raised his voice. “She’s *my daughter*! My *real* daughter! Five years I’ve raised her!”
“But she’s not your blood—”
“What does *blood* matter?” William exploded. “She’s *family*! She bears *our name*!”
Emily cried harder. Helen held her close.
“We’re leaving,” she said.
“Good,” William agreed. “Mum, when you realise you have *two* granddaughters—not one—you’re welcome back.”
“William, don’t—”
“I *must*. No one hurts my children. *No one*.”
They left. Margaret stood frozen in the doorway.
Outside, Emily clutched William’s hand.
“Dad… do you really love me like your own?”
“Of course, poppet. You’re my girl.”
“Then why doesn’t Gran?”
William knelt by a park bench.
“Sometimes adults are foolish, sweetheart. They think love’s only for blood relatives. But real love doesn’t care who gave birth to whom.”
“But I’m not *really* yours?”
“You *are*,” William said firmly. “I *chose* you. I could’ve married someone else, had children. But I chose your mum—and *you*. Because I loved you both.”
Emily pondered this.
“If we have a baby… will you love them more?”
William laughed. “No. I’ll love you all the same.”
Helen listened, her heart full. Not every man would defend another’s child so fiercely.
At home, Emily retreated to her room. Helen and William lingered in the kitchen.
“I’m sorry about Mum,” he said. “I never thought she’d be so cruel.”
“It’s all right,” Helen sighed. “To her, Emily *is* an outsider.”
“But not to *me*,” William said firmly. “Or to us. We’re *family*. Full stop.”
That evening, their neighbour, Mrs. Clark, stopped by.
“Why’s Emily so downcast? Saw her coming home earlier.”
Helen explained. Mrs. Clark shook her head.
“Some folks have no sense. What’s the child done wrong?”
“She thinks blood matters most,” Helen said.
“Rubbish! My sister raised her neighbour’s boy after his parents died. Loved him more than her own daughter. Yet when he grew up, he barely gave her the time of day. See how life goes?”
“Aye,” Helen agreed.
“But your Emily’s a bright, kind girl. *Anyone* would be lucky to have her.”
Later,And as the years passed, Gran Margaret learned to love Emily just as deeply, proving that love, not blood, truly makes a family.
