AITA for keeping the porcelain doll meant for my niece?

When my mom died in 2020, she left her six porcelain dolls to my niece Jay (10F), her only granddaughter. The dolls were special to me too—I’d grown up with them—but I kept one, thinking it meant more to me than her.

Hurricane Laura hit Louisiana, and when we evacuated, I took the doll with me. Jay left the other five behind, and they were destroyed in the storm. Now, my twin sister says it’s only fair I give Jay the last doll since I kept it safe while hers were ruined.

But if I’d given it to her, wouldn’t it have been destroyed too? And now, in 2025, I have a daughter of my own. If Mom had known, wouldn’t she have wanted her to have one?

Today, my sister said something that made me stop in my tracks. She said, “You saved that doll for yourself, not because you thought it meant more to you. You just didn’t want to let go.”

I wanted to deny it, but the words settled in me like heavy stones. Was she right? Had I been selfish all along?

I looked at the doll sitting on my dresser, its delicate blue dress still as pristine as the day Mom bought it. It was the only piece of her I had left in a tangible form. But Jay had lost everything. The dolls were a direct connection to the grandmother she barely had time to know.

I decided to talk to Jay about it myself. When I brought up the subject, she surprised me by shrugging.

“It’s okay,” she said, but there was something in her voice that made me pause.

“Really?” I asked.

She hesitated before nodding. “I mean, yeah, I wish I still had them. But it’s been five years. They’re gone.”

I studied her carefully. She was fifteen now, no longer a little girl who played with dolls. But grief doesn’t always work the way we expect it to. Sometimes, it lingers in unexpected ways.

“Would it mean something to you to have this one?” I asked, gesturing toward the doll.

Jay looked at it for a long moment before shaking her head. “Not really. I think Grandma gave them to me because I was the only granddaughter back then. But she loved all of us. If she had known you’d have a daughter one day, she might’ve wanted her to have one too.”

Her words surprised me. “You really think so?”

She nodded. “I do.”

For the first time in years, I felt the tension inside me ease. Maybe I hadn’t been selfish—just scared to lose another piece of Mom. And maybe, just maybe, I had been holding onto something that didn’t need to be held so tightly.

Later that night, I sat with the doll in my hands, running my fingers over its porcelain face. Then, I made a decision.

The next time Jay came over, I handed her a small box. “I know you said you didn’t need it, but I want you to have this.”

She opened it to find a necklace inside—one Mom had given me when I was younger, something I had cherished as much as the doll. “This belonged to Grandma,” I told her. “I think she’d want you to have something of hers too.”

Jay’s eyes widened, and for a moment, she just stared. Then she threw her arms around me. “Thank you,” she whispered.

I kept the doll. Not out of selfishness, but because it was something to pass down to my own daughter one day, a way to keep Mom’s memory alive for the next generation. But I also realized something important: love isn’t about who gets what. It’s about sharing what truly matters.

Sometimes, letting go isn’t about giving something away—it’s about making sure everyone holds onto what they need most.

So, was I the bad guy for keeping the doll? Maybe. But in the end, I chose to honor my mom’s memory in a way that felt right for everyone.

What would you have done? Let me know in the comments, and if this story resonated with you, share it with someone who might need to hear it.