**Diary Entry**
How could I allow my former mother-in-law to see my child? “You’ve got no pride, no decency left,” my own mother spat at me.
Last week, my daughter turned two. A small birthday celebration, one I planned myself with little money and no help. 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 happy birthday, and asked to see her granddaughter. I saw no harm in it. After all, she’s her grandmother. What’s wrong with a child being loved?
Margaret—that’s her name—didn’t come empty-handed. She brought a toy, some sweets, and an envelope with £50. We went to the park, had a stroll, then stopped by mine. I even smiled. But it all ended when my mother walked in.
“Have you lost all sense of shame?” she hissed the moment she stepped through the door. “Letting that woman kiss your child! You should’ve thrown her out! And taking her gifts—where’s your pride?” She paced the flat, waving her arms, muttering about how the toy was cheap rubbish, the sweets were poison, the money a handout. Her words hissed in my head all night, long after she’d gone quiet. Accusing Margaret of being the “good grandmother” while she was the “wicked one.” That I always betray everyone. That she once went penniless for me, and now I was abandoning her for some posh granny in a BMW.
I divorced my husband just under a year ago. He left on his own—packed his things, walked out, never came back. The flat we lived in was under his mother’s name. Nothing was mine. Legally, I was nothing. And I had nowhere to go.
His mother’s solicitor handled the divorce—I still don’t know why, there was nothing to split. My ex waived parental rights immediately. On paper, he had no assets, no income. I asked for nothing—no maintenance, no furniture. Just to stay in the flat until my maternity leave ended. But even that was denied.
Margaret wasn’t shocked. I wasn’t the first woman her son had left, and I doubt I’ll be the last. To her, I was just another name on a list. Still, she helped me move—paid for the van, hired movers. I took only what was mine. And that was it.
Now I live with my mother. Three of us crammed into her one-bed flat. The child support is pitiful. My ex vanished as if he never existed. Only Margaret reminds me he did—calling, checking in, dropping off 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 new car, gifted a plush toy and chocolates. That’s all. And then the storm hit at home.
My mother raged. Called me a traitor. Said I had no right letting “that woman” near my child. If the father walked away, so should the grandmother. That I was a disgrace. It got so bad she kicked me out—right then, in the evening, with my child in my arms, no idea where to go.
I stood in the hallway thinking: what exactly did I do wrong? Let a grandmother hug her grandchild? Let my daughter play with a teddy bear? Or was it simply 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 pretends to protect but suffocates instead. All I want is a little peace. For my daughter to be loved—even by those who once hurt me.
But in this house, love seems to be a punishable offence. **Lesson learned: kindness is rarely understood by those who hoard their own.**
