My daughter knitted 80 hats for sick children then my mother threw them away and said, Shes not of my blood.
My ten-year-old daughter lost her father when she was just three. For years, it was the two of us against the world.
Later, I married David. He treats Sophie as his own packs her lunch, helps with her school projects, and reads her favourite stories every night.
Hes every bit her dad, but his mother, Margaret, never saw it that way.
Its sweet that you pretend shes your real daughter, she once quipped to David.
Another time, she said, Stepchildren never quite feel like real family.
But what truly chilled me was when she remarked, Your daughter looks just like her late father. That must be hard for you.
David always tried to shut her down, but the comments would inevitably surface.
Wed learned to cope by keeping visits short and conversations polite. Anything for a bit of peace.
Until Margaret crossed a line from barbed remarks into genuine cruelty.
Sophies always been a gentle soul. Last December, she announced she wanted to knit 80 hats for children spending Christmas in hospices.
She watched YouTube tutorials to teach herself and spent her own saved-up pocket money on her first batch of wool.
Every afternoon after school, the ritual was the same: homework, a quick snack, and then the soft click-clack of needles as she knitted in her room.
I was so proud of her drive and compassion. Never did I imagine how quickly things could unravel.
Each time she finished a hat, shed show it to us, then place it carefully in a big bag beside her bed.
When David left on a two-day work trip, she had just about finished her 80th hat only one left to go.
But with David away, Margaret saw the perfect opportunity to strike.
Whenever David travels, Margaret likes to pop in. Maybe to check were running the house properly, or perhaps just to keep tabs on us when Davids not around. I stopped trying to figure out her reasoning ages ago.
That afternoon, Sophie and I came home from the shops, and she dashed to her room to pick out colours for her final hat.
Five seconds later, she screamed.
Mum! Mum!
I dropped the bags and sprinted down the hall.
I found her on her bedroom floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Her bed was bare, and the bag with all the finished hats was gone.
I knelt beside her, pulling her into my arms, trying to make sense of her muffled cries. Then I heard a sound behind me.
Margaret stood there, sipping tea from one of my best cups, as if she were auditioning for the part of a Victorian villain in a BBC drama.
If youre looking for the hats, I threw them away, she announced. Such a waste of time. Why would she spend her pocket money on strangers?
You threw out 80 hats meant for sick children? I stared at her, barely believing my ears, as it got even worse.
They were ugly, Margaret scoffed. Mismatched colours and poor stitching. Shes not my blood, and she doesnt represent my family, but that doesnt mean you should encourage her in some pointless little hobby.
They werent pointless… Sophie whimpered, fresh tears soaking my shirt.
Margaret sighed wearily and swept out. Sophie collapsed in another fit of sobs, her young heart shattered by such meanness.
I wanted to run after Margaret and give her a piece of my mind, but Sophie clung to me. I held her as tightly as I could.
When shed finally quietened, I slipped outside, determined to salvage what I could.
I searched through our bin and those of the neighbours, but Sophies hats were nowhere to be found.
That night, Sophie cried herself to sleep.
I sat with her until her breathing grew steady, then moved to the sitting room and stared at the wall, letting myself cry at last.
I must have come close to ringing David dozens of times, but in the end, I decided to let him focus on work.
That one decision set off a storm that would change our family forever.
When David finally came home, I instantly regretted keeping it to myself.
Wheres my girl? he called, voice warm. Can I see the hats? Did you finish the last one while I was away?
Sophie was watching the telly, but as soon as she heard him say hats, she burst into tears.
Davids face fell. Sophie, love whats happened?
I took David into the kitchen, away from Sophie, and told him everything.
His face changed from affectionate confusion to pure horror, then to a trembling rage Id never seen in him before.
I dont even know what she did with them! I finished. I checked the bins, theyre gone. She must have taken them somewhere.
He nodded tightly, then went back to Sophie and put his arm around her. Darling, Im sorry I wasnt here, but I promise Grandma will never hurt you again. Not ever.
He kissed her gently on the forehead, then stood and grabbed his car keys from the table in the hallway.
Where are you going? I asked.
Im going to fix this, one way or another, he said quietly. Ill be back soon.
Nearly two hours later, he returned.
I hurried downstairs, desperate to know what had happened. He was on the phone in the kitchen when I came in.
Mum, Im home now, he said, voice unsettlingly calm, fury still plain on his face. Come round. Ive got a surprise for you.
Margaret arrived half an hour later.
David, Im here for this surprise! she called, breezing past me. I had to cancel dinner plans, so this had better be good.
David lifted up a large black bin bag. When he tipped it open, I could hardly believe my eyes.
It was jam-packed with Sophies hats.
It took me nearly an hour to go through every rubbish bin in your block of flats, Mum, but I found them, he said, holding up a pastel yellow hat one of the first shed made. This isnt just some childish hobby its an attempt to bring a bit of light to children who need it most. And you destroyed it.
Margaret sneered. You went rooting through bins? Oh David, all this drama, for a bag of ugly hats.
Theyre not ugly, and you didnt just dismiss a project Davids voice shook. You insulted MY daughter. You broke her heart and
Oh, do grow up! Margaret snapped. Shes not your daughter.
David froze. He looked at his mother as if he were seeing her properly for the first time, suddenly realising she would never stop hurting Sophie.
Get out, he said. Were done.
What? Margaret spluttered.
You heard me, David barked. Youre never to speak to Sophie again, and youre not welcome here.
Margaret turned to me and, in disbelief, demanded, Youre really going along with this?
Absolutely, I replied. You chose to be cruel, Margaret. This is the very least you deserve.
Her jaw dropped. She looked from me to David and finally seemed to realise she had lost.
Youll regret this, she said, slamming the door so hard the picture frames rattled.
But she wasnt finished.
The next few days were almost too quiet. Sophie didnt mention her hats, nor picked up her needles.
What Margaret had done had utterly broken her, and I had no idea how to put things right.
Then David came home with a huge box. Sophie was sitting at the table having cornflakes when he set it in front of her.
She looked up, blinking. Whats this?
David opened it with a flourish, revealing new yarn, knitting needles, and bags for packaging the hats.
If youd like to start again… Ill help. Im rather hopeless at these sorts of things, but Ill learn.
He waggled a needle, awkward in his large hands, and asked, Will you teach me to knit?
For the first time in days, Sophie laughed.
Davids early attempts were a bit of a disaster, but after two weeks, Sophies new stash added up to 80 hats again. We posted them, never thinking Margaret would worm her way back into our lives.
Two days later, I got an email from the manager of the hospice. She thanked Sophie for the hats and said theyd brought real, genuine joy to the children. She asked if she could share photos of the little ones in their hats on the hospices social media.
Sophie nodded, cheeks pink with pride.
The post went viral.
There were hundreds of comments from people wanting to know more about the lovely girl who made the hats. I let Sophie reply on my account.
Im so glad they got the hats! she wrote. My grandma threw out the first lot, but my dad helped me make them again.
That evening, Margaret rang David, utterly hysterical.
Everyones calling me a monster! David, theyre sending me horrible messages! Take down that post! she bawled.
David didnt even so much as raise his voice. We didnt post anything, Mum. The hospice did. If you dont like people knowing what you did, you should have behaved better.
She sobbed harder. Im being bullied! Its awful!
Davids tone was final: You brought this on yourself.
Sophie and David still knit together every weekend. The house is quiet again, the hush punctuated only by the click of two sets of needles working in harmony.
Margaret still sends texts at Christmas and on birthdays. Shes never apologised, though she always asks if we can move on.
And David simply replies, No.
Our home is peaceful once again.
If Ive learned anything, its that choosing kindness over bitterness is what holds a family together even if sharing a bloodline doesnt.
