A Grandmother’s Dilemma: Adoring Avery, But What About Zachary?

“Margaret, are you coming?” My husband David’s voice echoed up the stairs, but I barely heard him over the thumping in my chest. I stood in the spare bedroom, clutching a faded photograph of Avery at four, her gap-toothed grin lighting up the frame. Downstairs, the sound of Zachary’s shrill laughter—so different from Avery’s melodic giggle—grated against my nerves.

I forced myself to breathe. Today was Sunday, family lunch day. Roast chicken, potatoes, carrots from the allotment. The house smelled of thyme and gravy, but beneath it all was a tension I couldn’t shake. I glanced at the clock: 12:45. They’d be here any minute.

David appeared at the door, his brow furrowed. “You alright, love?”

I nodded too quickly. “Just… thinking.”

He gave me a look that said he knew better but let it go. “They’ll be here soon.”

I followed him down the stairs, past the photos lining the wall—Avery’s school portrait front and centre, Zachary’s baby photo tucked behind a vase. I winced at the sight. Was it really so obvious?

The doorbell rang. My daughter Emily swept in first, cheeks flushed from the cold, Avery skipping behind her in a rainbow dress. Zachary trailed after, clutching a battered toy car, his face sticky with something unidentifiable.

“Gran!” Avery squealed, flinging her arms around me. Her hair smelled of strawberries and shampoo. My heart swelled.

Zachary stared at me, thumb in mouth. I bent down, forcing a smile. “Hello, Zachary.”

He blinked and shuffled behind Emily’s legs.

Lunch was a cacophony of voices and clattering cutlery. Avery chattered about her school play—she was to be Mary in the nativity—and I listened, enraptured.

“Gran, will you come watch me?” she asked, eyes wide.

“Of course, darling,” I said without hesitation.

Zachary banged his spoon on the table. “No!” he shouted suddenly. “No carrots!”

Emily sighed. “Zachary, please eat your lunch.”

He threw his spoon on the floor. David retrieved it with a weary smile.

After lunch, Avery tugged me towards the living room to show me her drawing—a family portrait with me in the centre, arms outstretched.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“It’s beautiful,” I said honestly.

Zachary wandered in and began pulling books from the shelf. One tumbled to the floor with a thud.

“Zachary!” Emily scolded. “Leave Gran’s books alone.”

He burst into tears.

I felt a flicker of irritation—why couldn’t he be more like Avery? But guilt gnawed at me immediately. He was only two. What did I expect?

Later, as Emily packed up their things, she lingered by the door. “Mum,” she said quietly, “do you… do you find it harder with Zachary?”

I froze. “What do you mean?”

She looked away. “It’s just… you seem so close with Avery. Sometimes I worry about Zachary.”

My cheeks burned. “He’s just little,” I mumbled.

Emily nodded but didn’t look convinced.

After they left, David found me in the kitchen, staring into the sink.

“You know she’s right,” he said gently.

I bristled. “It’s not that I don’t love him.”

“I know,” he said. “But maybe he feels it.”

That night I lay awake, haunted by memories of my own childhood—my mother’s favouritism towards my brother, how invisible I’d felt at times. Was I repeating history?

The next Sunday, I tried harder. When Zachary reached for my hand with his sticky fingers, I didn’t pull away. When he babbled nonsense about cars and trains, I listened—even if I didn’t understand a word.

But it wasn’t easy. Avery was so articulate, so affectionate; Zachary was wild and unpredictable.

One afternoon, as rain lashed against the windows and David dozed in his chair, Zachary climbed onto my lap with a book—”The Gruffalo.” He looked up at me expectantly.

“Read?” he asked.

I hesitated only a moment before opening the book and beginning to read aloud. His head rested against my chest; his breathing slowed as he listened.

For the first time, I felt something shift—a warmth blooming where irritation had been.

Weeks passed. Slowly, our relationship changed. Zachary began to seek me out for cuddles; I found myself missing his noisy presence when they left.

Still, guilt lingered like a shadow. Had Avery noticed? Was Emily right to worry?

One evening after dinner, Avery sat beside me on the sofa.

“Gran,” she whispered, “do you love Zachary as much as me?”

My heart clenched. How do you answer such a question?

I pulled her close. “Love isn’t always easy to show,” I said softly. “But I’m trying my best.”

She nodded solemnly and rested her head on my shoulder.

Now, as I watch them play together in the garden—Avery teaching Zachary how to blow bubbles—I wonder: Can love be learned? Or is it something that simply happens? And if we struggle to love equally, does that make us bad people—or just human?