My ten-year-old daughters father died when she was just three. For years, it was us against the world.
Then I married David. He treats Emily as his ownhe packs her lunches, helps her with her school projects, and reads her favourite bedtime stories each night.
He is her dad in every way that matters, but his mother, Carol, never saw it that way.
Its sweet that you pretend shes your actual daughter, she once said to David.
Another time, she had remarked, Stepchildren never really feel like family, do they?
And what always chilled my blood: Your daughter reminds me of her late father. That must be difficult for you.
Every time, David would hush her, but the barbed comments kept coming.
We coped by keeping visits short and sticking to light conversation. It was simply easier to keep the peace.
Until the day Carol went from passively cruel to outright monstrous.
Emily has always had a kind soul. As December approached, she announced that she wanted to crochet eighty hats for children spending Christmas in hospices.
She learned the basics from YouTube tutorials and bought her first batch of wool with the few pounds shed saved from her pocket money.
Each day after school fell into a ritual: homework, a quick snack, and then the gentle, rhythmic clicks of her crochet hook.
I was quietly proud of her compassion and drive. I could have never imagined how quickly it would all fall apart.
With every finished hat, shed show it off to us, then tuck it away in a big canvas bag at the foot of her bed.
When David left for a two-day business trip, Emily had just finished hat number eighty. She only had to finish the very last one to reach her goal.
Davids absence gave Carol the perfect opening.
Whenever David travels, Carol likes to pop in. I dont know if its to make sure the house is kept properly or to check up on us when David isnt there. I stopped trying to understand her motives long ago.
That afternoon, Emily and I returned from grocery shopping and she dashed upstairs, eager to pick colours for her final hat.
Five seconds later, she screamed.
Mum Mum!
I dropped the bags and dashed upstairs.
I found her collapsed on the floor of her room, sobbing uncontrollably. The big bag of finished hats was gone.
I knelt beside her, gathering her into my arms, trying to decipher her muffled cries. Thats when I heard it.
Carol stood in the doorway, sipping tea from one of my china cups, looking for all the world like a villain from a Sunday evening BBC drama.
If youre looking for the hats, I threw them out, she announced. It was a waste of time. Why should she spend her money on strangers?
You threw away eighty hats meant for ill children? I couldnt believe what I was hearing, but somehow it got worse.
Carol rolled her eyes. They were ugly. The colours clashed and the stitches were a mess. Shes not my blood and she doesnt represent this family. Theres no sense encouraging such a pointless hobby.
They werent pointless Emily sobbed, fresh tears soaking into my shirt.
Carol groaned, as though put upon, and swept out. Emilys heart broke spectacularly, her whole body wracked with anguish.
I wanted to storm after Carol and lay into her, but my daughter needed me more. I pulled her onto my lap and held her as tight as I could.
When she finally calmed enough to uncoil from my embrace, I dashed outside, desperate to retrieve what I could.
I tore through our wheelie bins and those of our neighbours. The hats were gone.
That night, Emily cried herself to sleep.
I sat by her side until her breaths evened out, and then I retreated to the lounge, staring at the wall until the tears finally found me.
Several times, I nearly rang David, but in the end, I decided to wait, not wanting to distract him at work.
That decision lit a fuse that would change our family forever.
When David finally returned, I immediately regretted holding my tongue.
Wheres my girl? he called, his voice full of warmth and affection. I want to see the hats! Did you finish the last one while I was away?
Emily had been watching television, but at the word hats, she burst into tears again.
Davids face fell. Emily, what happened?
I led him to the kitchen, out of Emilys earshot, and quietly told him everything.
His expression changed from weary confusion to horror, then to a quiet, terrifying rage Id never seen in him.
I dont even know what she did with them! I finished. I scoured the bins, but there was nothing. She mustve taken them somewhere else.
He marched directly back to Emily, sat with her, and gently tucked his arm around her small shoulders. Love, Im so sorry I wasnt here to stop this, but I promiseGrandma will never hurt you again. Never.
He pressed a kiss to Emilys forehead and then rose, plucking his car keys from the hall table.
Where are you going? I asked.
Im going to fix this, he whispered. I wont be long.
Nearly two hours later, he came home.
I rushed downstairs, desperate for answers. I found him in the kitchen, phone in hand.
Mum, Im home now, he was saying, voice perfectly even, eerily at odds with the anger in his eyes. Come round. Ive got a surprise for you.
Carol arrived half an hour later.
David, Im here for my surprise! she chirped, breezing past me as though I was invisible. Had to cancel my dinner reservations for this, so it had better be worth it.
David hefted a large bin bag and, as he opened it, I genuinely couldnt believe my eyes.
The bag was filled with Emilys hats!
It took nearly an hour to dig through the bins behind your flats, but I found them. He lifted a pastel yellow hat, one of the first Emilyd made. This isnt just a childs pastimeits her way of bringing comfort to poorly children. And you destroyed it.
Carol let out a hollow laugh. You really went dustbin diving? David, youre being utterly ridiculous over a bunch of ugly hats.
Theyre not ugly, and you didnt just insult her project His voice cracked. You insulted MY daughter. You broke her heart, and
Oh, please! Carol snapped. Shes not your daughter.
David froze. He stared at her, as if finally seeing the truth about Carol, realising she would never stop hurting Emily.
Get out, he said, quiet but firm. Were finished.
What? Carol choked.
You heard me, he said. You dont speak to Emily, and you dont come here again.
Her face turned beet-red. David! Im your mother! You cant do this to me over a pile of wool!
And Im a father, he said quietly, to a ten-year-old girl who needs protectingfrom YOU.
Carol turned to me, and what she said was unthinkable.
Youre really letting him do this? She raised her brow at me.
Absolutely. You chose to be poisonous, Carol, and thats the consequence.
Carols jaw dropped. She looked between David and meand finally, she saw shed lost.
Youll regret this, she spat, and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the pictures on the wall rattled.
But it wasnt over.
The next several days were subdued. Not peacefuljust quiet. Emily didnt mention the hats, nor did she crochet a single stitch.
Carol had managed to shatter her, and I had no idea how to put her back together.
Then David came home one evening with a massive box. Emily was sitting at the table, eating cereal, when he placed it in front of her.
She blinked. Whats this?
David flipped open the lid, revealing new skeins of brightly coloured wool, crochet hooks, and wrapping materials.
If you want to start again Ill help. Im not much good, but I can learn.
He picked up a hook and, with a sheepish grin, asked, Will you teach me?
Emily giggledfor the first time in days.
Davids first attempts were, frankly, hilarious, but after two weeks Emily had managed to finish eighty hats. We posted them ourselves, never expecting that Carol would soon reinsert herself into our lives, fuelled by spite.
Two days later, I received an email from the head of the hospice, thanking Emily for the hats and explaining that theyd brought true, heartfelt joy to the children.
She asked permission to post photos of the children wearing the hats on the hospices social media.
Emily nodded, a shy, proud smile lighting up her face.
The post went viral.
Comments poured in from people who wanted to know more about the sweet girl who made the hats. I let Emily respond from my account.
Im glad they got the hats! she wrote. My grandma threw the first lot away, but my dad helped me make them again.
Later that day, Carol called David, outright sobbing.
People are calling me a monster! David, theyre harassing me! Tell them to take the post down! she wailed.
David didnt even raise his voice. We didnt post anything, Mum. The hospice did. And if you dont want the world to know what you did, you should have behaved better.
She broke down again into tears. Im being bullied! This is awful!
Davids reply was final: You deserve it.
Emily and David still sit together on weekends, crocheting away. Our house is peaceful once morefilled with the gentle clicking of two hooks working in tandem.
Carol still texts every Christmas and birthday. Shes never apologised, but always asks if anything can be a fresh start.
And David just replies, No.
Our home is calm again.
