**Diary Entry**
They say grandmothers love their grandchildren more than their own children. I used to believe that. I’ve seen my parents dote on their grandchildren, giving them the patience and warmth they sometimes couldn’t give us when we were young. They’re the ones who step in when we’re too worn out, picking up the pieces with love.
But life has a way of showing you that not all grandmothers are the same. Some put pride above love, judgment above care. My Aunt Margaret is one of them.
Her son, James, had a daughter with a woman named Lillian. Their relationship was rocky from the start—Lillian had a fiery temper, a taste for loud parties, and a restless spirit. A year after the baby was born, she wound up in prison for getting mixed up with the wrong crowd. The child stayed with her father.
At first, James tried. He was attentive, playing with the little girl, doing his best. But then came a new woman—Emily. Suddenly, she took up all the space in his life: his home, his bed, his priorities. Emily wasn’t cruel, not exactly. She just… didn’t care. She followed the motions—fed her, changed her, put her to bed—but there was no love in it. And it showed.
Aunt Margaret, meanwhile, took her bitterness toward Lillian out on the little girl.
*”Just like her mother,”* she’d mutter. *”Same blood, same bad genes.”* Sometimes to her face.
They visited us recently. The girl—Sophie—sat quietly in the corner, playing by herself. Every tiny movement earned a sharp rebuke:
*”Don’t touch that!”*
*”Sit properly!”*
*”How many times do I have to tell you?”*
Watching it made my skin crawl. She’s only four. No one spoke to her, smiled at her, or even looked her in the eye. I couldn’t stand it. I took her to play with my daughter. We painted, sang little songs. Within half an hour, the house was peaceful—no tantrums, no wailing, no “difficult child.”
*”She’s calmed down?”* Margaret asked, surprised.
*”Have you tried not shouting? Just… explaining? Telling her what’s right and what’s wrong?”*
She scoffed. *”What’s the point? It’s in her blood. Teaching her’s a waste of time.”*
I stiffened at that. A grown woman. Talking about a little girl—one with no mother, no warmth, no one to hold her. Just “bad genes.”
Later, when I picked Sophie up, she clung to me like she was afraid I’d push her away too. And then she cried. Not loudly, just this quiet, choked sound, like her heart was breaking. A little cub, used to being unwanted.
And Margaret? She treats my daughter like a princess. Kisses, presents, endless affection. But Sophie? *”Different blood.”* As if a child could be blamed for her mother’s mistakes.
I’ll never understand how anyone can divide children like that. For what? Their parents’ sins? Their last name? A past they had no part in?
A child needs love. Even just one person who won’t let them down. Without that, no bloodline, no “good genes,” will save them.
And grandmothers who turn their backs on their own flesh and blood over something as heartless as “bad blood”? They don’t deserve the name.
What do you think? Can a child inherit someone else’s guilt? And what’s worse—bad genes, or a heart that refuses to love?
