**Diary Entry – 12th October**
How could I let my ex-mother-in-law see my child? “You’ve got no pride, no decency left,” my own mother spat at me.
Last week, my little girl turned two. A small birthday celebration, just me trying my best with what I had—no help, no spare cash. Not even a call or text from her father. But his mother, my former mother-in-law, remembered. She rang, wished her happy birthday, and asked to see her granddaughter. And I, seeing no harm in it, agreed. She’s her grandmother, after all. What’s wrong with a child being loved?
Rachel—that’s her name—didn’t come empty-handed. She brought a stuffed toy, a box of chocolates, and an envelope with fifty quid inside. We went to the park, had a walk, then stopped by mine for tea. I even smiled. But it all fell apart the moment my mum came home.
“Have you lost all self-respect?” she hissed the second she stepped in. “Letting that—that woman—kiss your child! You should’ve slammed the door in her face! And taking her gifts—have you no pride at all?”
She stormed around the flat, arms flailing, ranting about how the toy was cheap rubbish, the sweets were poison, the money a handout. Her words hissed in my head all night, even after she went quiet. She accused Rachel of being the “good granny” while she, my own mother, was the “wicked” one. Said I always betray everyone. That she once went broke for me, and now I’d toss her aside for some posh grandmother with a Range Rover.
I divorced my husband nearly a year ago. He left of his own accord—packed his things, walked out, never came back. The flat we lived in was under his mother’s name. Legally, I was nothing. Nowhere to go.
Rachel’s solicitor handled the divorce, though I still don’t know why—there was nothing to split. My ex signed away his parental rights straight off. On paper, he had no assets, no income. I asked for nothing—no alimony, no furniture. Just to stay in the flat till maternity leave ended. They didn’t even let me have that.
Rachel wasn’t shocked. I wasn’t the first, and I doubt I’ll be the last woman in her son’s life. To her, I was just another name. She even helped me move—paid for the van, hired movers. I took only what was mine. That was that.
Now I’m crammed into Mum’s one-bed flat, the three of us squeezing into space meant for one. The alimony’s pitiful. My ex vanished like he never existed. Only Rachel reminds me he did—calls, asks after the baby, brings little things.
I didn’t fight it. Never saw the point in keeping a grandmother from her grandchild. We met in the park. She wore a designer coat, arrived in a flash car, gave my girl a teddy and sweets. That’s all. But at home, chaos.
Mum lost it. Called me a traitor. Said I had no right letting “that woman” near my child. If the father walked away, the grandmother should too. Said I was a disgrace. She kicked me out in the end—middle of the night, child in my arms, nowhere to go.
I stood in the corridor thinking—what exactly did I do wrong? Let a grandmother hug her grandchild? Let my girl play with a teddy? Or was it just that I was tired of being alone?
Sometimes it feels like I’m trapped between two walls. On one side, a man who ran from responsibility; on the other, a mother who claims she’s protecting me but only smothers. All I want is a bit of quiet. And for my daughter to be loved—even by those who once hurt me.
But in this house, love seems like a punishable offence.
