**Diary Entry – 18th March**
I don’t love my own grandson. How does one learn to feel warmth?
My name is Margaret Whitmore, I’m sixty-two, and I need to confess something I never thought possible—something that haunts me still. Something I hide away, terrified of judgment, of losing my daughter’s trust, and above all, ashamed of myself.
My only daughter, Emily, has lived in Germany for six years. She moved there for university and soon after met her husband, a German man. Their wedding came quickly, but I couldn’t attend—health troubles, visa issues, and, truthfully, money was tight. We longed to reunite, but even when Emily had her son, my grandson, the trip never happened—paperwork, quarantines, thousands of miles between us…
I finally met little Henry (or “Heinrich,” as they call him there) two years after his birth. Imagine it: a first grandchild, so eagerly awaited, so dearly wanted! I’d imagined this moment countless times—holding him close, tears of joy on my cheeks, his tiny hands tugging at my hair as I laughed and smoothed his little head.
But reality was different. The moment I first held him, all I felt was confusion. A coldness. An emptiness. He reached for me like any stranger, yet my heart stayed silent—no warmth, no rush of love, none of what books and films promise. I tried so hard—smiling, playing, baking his favourite biscuits—but it was all mechanical, empty, like reciting lines in a play I never auditioned for.
*It will pass*, I told myself. *He’s still so young; I just need more time.* But days turned to weeks, and nothing changed. I remained detached, even catching myself in a terrible thought: *Would I act the same if this were my neighbour’s child?* Am I truly so cold-hearted? What’s wrong with me?
When Emily and her family returned to Germany, I felt… relief. Then, instantly, crushing guilt. How could I? This is my grandson—my daughter’s child. Do I have any right to feel this way? I dreamed of being a grandmother for years—knitting booties before he was born, picturing spoiling him, reading stories, holding his hand in the park…
Now, I don’t know how to live with this hollowness. I’d never dare tell Emily—she’d never understand. To her, it would be betrayal. How could I say it? That I don’t love her son? That the bond just isn’t there? As if we’re from separate worlds, the thread between us snapped before it could weave.
Then, two days ago, she rang, voice bright, saying they’d visit in May. She asked where we might go, gushed about Henry learning snippets of English, how he’d recite nursery rhymes for me… I nodded along while my heart sank into dread.
How do I wear the mask of the doting grandmother again? How do I pretend joy when I feel none? Am I just growing old and hard-hearted? Or is this resentment—for Emily leaving, marrying a foreigner, building a life where I might no longer fit?
I don’t know. I just need to understand—can love for a grandchild be learned? Or must it come naturally, straight from the heart? Why don’t I feel it? Am I failing? Maybe I’m not meant for this role. Or perhaps the pain of losing my daughter froze me to her child.
To anyone who’s felt this way—did your love for a grandchild come late? If so, when? How did you melt the ice inside?
Writing this is agony. But I refuse to live a lie. I want to be a real grandmother. To love. To *feel*. I want Henry to one day boast, *”I’ve got a gran—the kindest, loveliest there is.”* But right now, I’ve no idea how to get there.
**Lesson learnt today:** The heart doesn’t obey duty. And guilt is a poor substitute for love.
