**Diary Entry**
Three years, Margaretthree years youve hounded me for a grandson, scolded me for dragging my feet. And now, in front of everyone, you lavish attention on Oliver, your daughters son, while my Alfieyour grandson toostands in the shadows. Have you forgotten him?
Margaret adjusted her immaculate updo and gave me that icy, superior stare. Behind her in the sitting room, childrens laughter and music carried onOlivers birthday party in full swing.
“And when you ignore Alfie, when you dont give him gifts like the others,” I pressed, my voice trembling, “he notices. Hes ten, Margaret. Old enough to know you dont love him.”
She scoffed, waving a hand like she was shooing a fly.
“Youre imagining things, Emily. I treat both grandsons the same. And really, must you make a scene today of all days?” Her brows arched in indignation. “Its Olivers party. I havent time for your nonsense.”
With that, she turned on her heels and swept back to the festivities, leaving me in the hallway. The hurt lodged in my throat like a stone. My son was nothing to herjust glass, invisible, looked through for the sake of her favourites.
I steadied myself against the wall, took a breath, and returned to the party. The sight twisted my heart tighter. Margaret fussed over Oliver, cooing at his every word, ruffling his hair, slipping him sweets. And there, in the corner, Alfie stoodshoulders slumped, eyes dull with envy. That quiet longing in his face nearly undid me.
That evening, after Alfie had gone to bed, I sat beside my husband, Edward.
“We need to talk about your mother,” I began. “The way she treats Alfie isnt right. He *sees* it. Hes hurting.”
Edward rubbed his foreheadhis tell when avoiding an unpleasant topic.
“Youre overreacting, Em,” he muttered. “I was the less-favoured child too. My sister always came first. Alfie will learn not to expect anything from her. Hell manage. Hes a lad, after all. And she *does* love himjust differently, not like Oliver.”
I stared at him, stunned. How could he be so blind? Our son, taught to accept neglect as normal?
A week later, Margaret turned up unannounced. Alfie was at the kitchen table doing homework when the doorbell rang. His face lit up at the sight of herthen dimmed, guarded.
“Alfie, darling, Ive brought you sweets!” she trilled, offering a handful of cheap penny candies. For Oliver, she bought fine chocolates.
“Thanks, Gran,” he mumbled, taking them.
Margaret turned to me, triumphant. “See? I dont play favourites. All this nonsense about unequal treatment.”
Alfie lingered awkwardly before murmuring hed finish his homework and slipping away. He knewshe hadnt come for him.
Alone in the kitchen, I tried again. Maybe if I shared his achievements, shed care.
“Margaret, Alfie won a maths Olympiad at school. His teacher says hes brilliant.”
“Lovely,” she said absently, then brightened. “Oliver won the district swimming competition last week! First place! His coach says he could go professional.”
“Thats wonderful,” I said tightly. “But Alfies also started drawing. His art teacher”
“Drawing?” She cut me off. “Hardly practical. Now, sportthats something! Olivers so strong, so capable. And his English marks? Top of his class. His teacher says hes *exceptional*.”
My patience snapped. I slammed my palm on the table, rattling the teacups.
“Why, Margaret? Why do you treat my son this way? You *begged* for a grandson from Edward! Rushed us!”
Her face soured. For a moment, she hesitatedthen spoke as if admitting something obvious.
“I wanted *my* grandson. Proper, *true* family. But Alfie” She wrinkled her nose. “Hes *your* spitting image. Everything about him*you*.”
I froze. The absurdity of it left me speechless.
“You dont love him because he looks like *me*?”
She nodded, as if explaining to a dim child. “I never approved of Edwards choice. But I thoughtfine, at least youd give me a sturdy grandson. Youre healthy enough. But him?” She waved dismissively. “A carbon copy. Your face, your mannerismseven the way he *turns his head*. Ghastly.”
I couldnt move. She *meant* it.
“Maybe if you had another?” she mused, oblivious. “One that takes after *our* side?”
I stood so fast the chair toppled. The room swam with rage.
“*Another*? Have you lost your mind? *Get out.*”
“This is *my sons* house!” she spat.
“*Our* home. And I wont let you poison my childs heart another second. *Leave.*”
I wrenched the door open. Margaret, purple with fury, snatched her bag and stormed out.
“This isnt over!” she hissed.
The slam echoed. I leaned against the wall, shaking.
That night, Edward listened as I recounted it all. His face darkened with every word.
“She *said* that? That she dislikes Alfie for looking like you? And to *have another*?”
I nodded, tears spilling.
“Ed, how can she *hurt* a child for resembling his mother? Its *monstrous*.”
He pulled me close. “Enough. Were done with her. Alfie comes first.”
Months passed. Life settled. Then my parents moved to town, selling their countryside home for a flat nearby.
“We missed you both,” MumValeriesaid. “And you could use the help.”
They doted on Alfie. The love hed been starved of poured from them, and I watched him *bloom*his smile returning, his shoulders straightening.
On his birthday, I invited Margaret, against my better judgment. She arrived with a flimsy boxinside, a cheap plastic car, the sort sold in market stalls.
“Thanks, Gran,” Alfie said politely, then turned. “Gran Val, Grandad, can I open yours now?”
They handed him a large box. Inside: a graphic tablet.
“Thank you! *Thank you!*” He flung his arms around them. “Its the one I wanted!”
Margaret sniffed. “Ridiculous, spoiling him so.”
Valerie met her gaze. “Hes talented. This will help him become a designer.”
Alfie beamed, kissing them both. “Dad, help me set it up!”
Edward winked. “Lets go, birthday boy.”
They vanished into his room, laughter trailing.
Margaret stood stunned.
“Problem?” I asked coolly.
“Oliver just won”
“If you mention him,” I cut in, “leave. This is Alfies day. I wont let you ruin it.”
“But Olivers *clearly* better!” she burst out. “Stronger, brighter”
“*Out.*”
I marched to the door, flung it open.
“You cant”
“I can. This is *my* home, *my* sons celebration. *Goodbye.*”
The door shut on her spluttering. I leaned against it, exhaling. No more compromises. Alfie mattered more.
From his room, his laughter rangbright, unburdened. I smiled and went to join them.
**Lesson learned:** Blood doesnt make familylove does. And no one gets to dim my childs light.
