When I agreed to let my six-year-old son Timmy spend two weeks at my mother-in-law Betsy’s estate, I thought I was giving him a gift. Every summer, she hosted a “grandkids-only” holiday, and Timmy had longed to join his cousins in the pool parties and treasure hunts.
Betsy was flawless—always polished, with a sprawling estate and a frosty politeness reserved for me. When she invited Timmy, her voice was formal but warm enough. I believed she cared.
But the next morning, Timmy called me, voice trembling: “Mom… can you come get me? Grandma says I don’t belong here.” Betsy dismissed my concerns, saying he was just adjusting.
When we arrived, Timmy sat alone, not swimming, while other kids played. Betsy coldly declared, “He’s not my grandson,” accusing me of lying and cheating.
At home, a DNA test confirmed Dave was Timmy’s father. I wrote Betsy, telling her she’d lost any claim to be his grandmother.
We filled the summer with laughter, and Timmy found a new “Grandma Rose” who loved him without condition. Some family ties are earned, not given.
