Olivia stood in the kitchen frying burgers when the front door burst open—her daughters were back from visiting their grandmother. The girls shrugged off their coats and declared in near unison:
“We’re never going back to Grandma’s! She doesn’t love us.”
Olivia froze. Stepping into the hallway, she looked at Emma and Lily.
“How did you come to that idea?”
“She kept all the nice treats for Ethan and Grace. We got nothing. They could run and shout, but we weren’t allowed. And when they left, Grandma gave them chocolate bars, stuffed their pockets with sweets, kissed them, and even walked them to the bus stop. With us? She just shoved us out the door…”
Olivia listened silently, a lump rising in her throat. Her mother-in-law, Margaret, had made it clear for years which grandchildren she truly cared for. Ethan and Grace were the children of her own daughter, Sophie. But the twins, Emma and Lily—Olivia’s girls—were outsiders, the children of the “outsider.”
When Olivia first married James, her relationship with Margaret had been civil—not close, but not hostile. Everything changed when Sophie had children. Margaret blossomed—those grandchildren became her world. But only the “true blood” ones.
When James and Olivia had the twins, Margaret’s reaction was flat.
“Two at once? You’re having a laugh. I can’t manage two.”
James hadn’t asked for help, but after that, a wall went up between them. Olivia’s own mum became their refuge—helping with the babies without complaint. Meanwhile, Margaret never stopped doting on Sophie’s children.
Years passed, and nothing changed. James’s children got gifts once a year; Sophie’s got everything, anytime. Margaret even told acquaintances openly:
“Proper grandchildren come from your own daughter. The others? Who knows. They’ve got my son’s name—that’s all.”
When Olivia and James heard those words, he argued with his mother for the first time. But it didn’t last. The favouritism continued. And the children noticed.
That day, the girls explained how Grandma had sent them away because she “had a headache.” She’d made them walk alone across the wasteland to the far bus stop—just six years old.
“You walked alone?!” James demanded, stunned.
“Well… yeah,” Lily admitted. “We were scared. There were dogs…”
James called his mother at once.
“Mum, did you know you sent them across that wasteland? Alone?”
“Don’t be dramatic,” she said coldly. “They need to learn independence.”
“They’re six! Would you have sent Sophie’s kids off alone?”
“Oh, so now it’s my fault? Is that Olivia filling your head with nonsense?”
The call ended abruptly. James stared at his wife, lost. She pressed her lips together.
“That’s it,” Olivia said. “They won’t go back. They’ve got a grandma who loves them—my mum. This one can have her ‘favourites.’”
Years passed. The girls grew up. Only when Margaret fell ill and couldn’t manage on her own did she suddenly remember Emma and Lily.
She called Ethan first—he said he wasn’t a maid to scrub floors. Grace refused too—”too busy with schoolwork.” So Margaret rang James.
“Send your girls over. They can help.”
“You haven’t seen them in five years. Now you remember? Ask the ones you love,” he said, hanging up.
Then she called Olivia.
“You have to come! I’m ill!”
“I don’t owe you anything. You’ve got a daughter—ask her. We’re away. The girls are with the grandma who doesn’t pick favourites.”
Margaret stared at the phone. Was this truly the end? Would no one come?
But was it her fault?
She’d always known—who was truly hers, and who wasn’t.
