How could you let your ex-mother-in-law see your child? Have you no pride, no shame? That’s what my own mum said to me.
Last week, my little girl turned two. A small birthday celebration, one I put together myself as best I could—no fancy budget, no help. Her father didn’t even remember. Not a call, not a text. But his mum, my ex-mother-in-law, did. She rang, wished her happy birthday, said she wanted to see her granddaughter. And I, not seeing the harm in it, agreed. 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 cash. We went to the park, had a stroll, then stopped by mine for a bit. I even smiled. But it all fell apart when my mum got home…
“Have you completely lost your dignity?” she hissed the second she walked in. “Letting that woman—that woman—come in and kiss your child! You should’ve kicked her out! And taking her gifts—do you have any self-respect at all?”
She paced the flat, flapping her hands, muttering under her breath. Said the toy was cheap rubbish, the sweets were poison, the money was charity. Her voice grated in my head all night, even after she’d gone quiet. Said Margaret was the “good grandma,” while she, my own mother, was the “wicked” one. That I always betray people. That she once went without a penny for me, and now I was tossing her aside for some posh granny with a Range Rover.
I divorced my husband just under a year ago. He left on his own—just packed his things, walked out the door, and never came back. The flat we’d lived in was in his mum’s name. Nothing was mine. Legally, I was nobody. And I had nowhere to go.
Margaret’s solicitor handled the divorce—still don’t know why, since there was nothing to split. My ex signed away his rights to our daughter straight off. On paper, he owned nothing, earned nothing. I didn’t ask for anything—no maintenance, no furniture. Just one thing: to stay in the flat till my maternity leave ended. But they wouldn’t even give me that.
Margaret 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 one. She even helped me move out—hired movers, covered the costs. I took only what was mine. That was it.
Now I live with my mum. Three of us crammed into her tiny one-bed. The child support? Barely enough to scrape by. My ex vanished like he never existed. Only Margaret still remembers our daughter—calls, checks in, brings little things.
I didn’t fight it. Didn’t see why a grandma shouldn’t see her grandchild. We met in the park. She wore a posh coat, showed up in a shiny new car, gave her a teddy and some chocolates. That was it. Then came the explosion at home.
My mum lost it. Said I was a traitor. That I had no right to let “that woman” near my child. That if the father walked away, the grandmother shouldn’t get a pass. Said I was a disgrace to the family. It got so bad she threw me out—mid-evening, holding my daughter, with nowhere to go.
I stood in the stairwell, wondering—what exactly did I do wrong? Let a grandmother hug her granddaughter? Let my child play with a teddy? Or maybe just got tired of being alone?
Sometimes it feels like I’m wedged between two walls. On one side, a man who ran from responsibility. On the other, a mother who acts like she’s protecting me but just smothers me instead. All I want is a bit of quiet. For my little girl to be loved—even by people who once hurt me.
But in this house, love seems to be a punishable offence.
