How could you let your ex-mother-in-law see the child? Have you no pride, no decency—that’s what my own mother said to me.
Last week, my daughter turned two. A small birthday celebration, one I arranged myself, with no help and hardly any money. The child’s father didn’t even remember—no call, no message. But his mother, my former mother-in-law, did. She rang, wished her granddaughter a happy birthday, and asked to see her. I didn’t see the harm in it. She’s her grandmother, after all. What’s wrong with a child being loved?
Margaret—that’s my ex-mother-in-law’s name—didn’t come empty-handed. She brought a stuffed toy, some sweets, and an envelope with money. We went to the park, had a stroll, then stopped by my place. I was even smiling. But it all fell apart when my mother came home.
“Have you no shame at all?” she hissed the moment she stepped inside. “Letting that… that woman come here and kiss your child! You should’ve thrown her out! And taking her gifts—have you no self-respect?”
She stormed around the flat, arms waving, muttering under her breath. The toy was cheap rubbish, the sweets poison, the money just a handout. Her words echoed in my head long after she’d stopped speaking. She accused Margaret of being the “good grandmother” while she, my own mother, was the “wicked” one. That I always betrayed everyone. That she’d once been left penniless because of me, and now I was choosing a stranger—some posh old woman with a BMW—over my own family.
I divorced my husband nearly a year ago. He left on his own—just packed his things and walked out, never coming back. The flat we’d lived in was in his mother’s name, so legally, I had nothing. Nowhere to go.
Margaret’s solicitor handled the divorce—still don’t know why, since there was nothing to split. My ex-husband renounced his rights to the child immediately. On paper, he had no assets, no income. I asked for nothing—no maintenance, no furniture. Just to stay in the flat until maternity leave ended. They wouldn’t even let me have that.
Margaret wasn’t shocked. I wasn’t the first, and likely wouldn’t be the last, woman in her son’s life. To her, I was just another name in a line. She even helped me move—paid for the van, hired the movers. I only took what was mine. And that was it.
Now I live with Mum. The three of us crammed into her one-bedroom flat. The child support is pitiful. My ex vanished as if he never existed. Only Margaret reminds me he did—she calls, asks after the baby, brings things over.
I didn’t fight it. Never thought to stop a grandmother from seeing her granddaughter. We met in the park. She wore an expensive coat, arrived in a new car, gave her a teddy bear and chocolates. That’s all. And then the storm at home.
Mum flew into a rage. Called me a traitor. Said I had no right to let “that woman” near my child. That if the father walked away, so should his mother. That I was a disgrace. It got so bad she kicked me out—right there in the evening, my daughter in my arms, no idea where to go.
I stood in the stairwell, wondering—what exactly had I done wrong? Let a grandmother hug her grandchild? Let her play with a teddy bear? Or was it just that I was tired of being alone?
Sometimes, it feels like I’m wedged between two walls. One side—a man who ran from responsibility. The other—a mother who claims to protect me but only smothers. All I want is a little quiet. And for my daughter to be loved—even by the people who once hurt me.
But in this house, love seems to come at a price.
