Emily was flipping burgers in the kitchen when the front door burst open—her daughters were back from visiting Granny. The girls kicked off their wellies and announced in unison, “We’re never going to Granny’s again! She doesn’t love us.”
Emily froze mid-flip. She stepped into the hallway, eyeing Lily and Poppy. “Why on earth would you say that?”
“Because she gives all the good stuff to Oliver and Sophie. We got zip. They could run about and shout, but we got told off. And when they left, Granny stuffed their pockets with sweets, gave them chocolate bars, kissed them goodbye, and even walked them to the bus stop. Us? She just booted us out the door…”
Emily listened, a lump forming in her throat. Her mother-in-law, Margaret, had made it painfully clear for years which grandchildren she considered “proper.” Oliver and Sophie were her daughter Claire’s kids—the golden ones. Meanwhile, Lily and Poppy, Emily’s twins, were the “other ones.”
Back when Emily first married Tom, things with Margaret had been tolerable—not best mates, but civil. Then Claire had kids, and Margaret blossomed into full-on doting granny mode… but only for *her* grandbabies. When Tom and Emily had their twins, Margaret’s reaction was a brisk, “Two at once? Bloody hell. I can’t handle that.”
Tom had said they weren’t asking for help. But after that, it was like a brick wall went up. Emily’s own mum became their lifeline—helping with the girls without a word of complaint. Meanwhile, Margaret never missed a chance to gush over Claire’s kids.
Years passed, and nothing changed. Tom’s girls got birthday presents like clockwork—once a year. Claire’s kids got spoilt rotten. Margaret even said to friends, “Proper grandkids come from your own daughter. The others? Just names on paper.”
When that gem reached Tom and Emily, he had his first proper row with his mum. It didn’t last. The favouritism carried on, and the girls noticed.
That day, Lily and Poppy explained Granny had turfed them out because she had a “raging headache.” Sent them alone across the wasteland to the far bus stop. They were six.
“You walked *alone*?!” Tom choked out.
“Uh-huh,” Lily nodded. “We were scared. There were stray dogs…”
Tom rang his mother straight away. “Mum, did you *know* you sent them through that wasteland? Alone?”
“Don’t be dramatic,” she sniffed. “Time they learned some independence.”
“They’re *six*. Would you have done that to Claire’s kids?”
“Oh, so it’s *my* fault now? That wife of yours has poisoned you!”
The call ended. Tom stared at Emily, lost. She pressed her lips tight.
“That’s it,” Emily said. “They’re not going back. They’ve got a granny who actually loves them—my mum. This one can stick with her ‘favourites.’”
Years rolled by. The girls grew up. Then Margaret fell ill and couldn’t manage the house. Suddenly, she remembered Lily and Poppy existed.
She rang Oliver first. He said he wasn’t “some maid.” Sophie was “too busy with revision.” So Margaret called Tom.
“Send your girls over. I need help.”
“You haven’t seen them in five years. *Now* you remember them? Ask the ones you actually love,” he said, hanging up.
Then came the call to Emily: “You *owe* me. I’m poorly!”
“I owe you nothing. You’ve got a daughter—ask *her*. We’re away. The girls are with the granny who doesn’t play favourites.”
Margaret gaped at the phone. Was this really it? Was no one coming?
But was it *her* fault?
She’d always known who was family… and who wasn’t.
