**Diary Entry – 12th October**
How could I possibly let my ex-mother-in-law see my child? *”You’ve got no pride, no self-respect”*—that’s what my own mother spat at me.
Last week, my daughter turned two. A small birthday celebration, one I put together alone, scraping by on pennies, no help whatsoever. Her own father couldn’t even be bothered—no call, no text. But his mother, my ex-mother-in-law, remembered. She rang, wished her happy birthday, asked to see her granddaughter. And I, seeing no harm in it, agreed. She’s still her grandmother, isn’t she? What’s wrong with a child being loved?
Margaret—that’s her name—didn’t come empty-handed. She brought a stuffed toy, a few chocolates, and an envelope with some cash. We took a walk in the park, then back to mine for tea. I even smiled. It all fell apart when Mum came home.
*”Have you no shame?”* she hissed the second she stepped inside. *”Letting that woman near your child! You should’ve thrown her out! And taking her gifts—where’s your dignity?”* She stormed about the flat, arms flailing, muttering about *”cheap tat from China,”* the sweets being *”poison,”* the money *”a handout.”* Hours later, her words still hissed in my head, long after she’d gone quiet. She accused me of betrayal, of choosing *”some posh nana in a Range Rover”* over her.
The divorce was final a year ago. He left—just packed his things and walked out. The flat we’d lived in? His mother’s name on the deed. Nothing was mine. Legally, I didn’t exist. Nowhere to go.
His mother’s solicitor handled the divorce—why, I’ll never know, there was nothing to split. He signed away parental rights in a heartbeat. On paper, he owned nothing, earned nothing. I asked for nothing—no maintenance, no furniture. Just time to stay until maternity leave ended. They refused.
Margaret wasn’t shocked. I doubt I was the first woman her son discarded, nor the last. To her, I was just another. Still, she helped me move—paid for the van, arranged it all. I took only what was mine.
Now I’m back with Mum, crammed into her one-bed flat with my little girl. The child support? A pittance. He vanished as if he never existed. Only Margaret reminds me he did—calls, asks after her, drops off gifts.
I never fought it. Never saw the point in keeping a grandmother away. We met at the park. She wore a designer coat, arrived in a shiny car, gave my girl a teddy and some sweets. That’s all. Then home, where the storm broke.
Mum screamed I was a traitor. That I’d no right letting *”that woman”* near my child. If the father walked away, so should his family. That I was a disgrace. She threw me out—just like that, evening falling, my daughter in my arms, nowhere to go.
I stood in the stairwell, wondering—what exactly was my crime? Letting her grandmother hug her? Letting her play with a teddy? Or just being tired of being alone?
Sometimes it’s like I’m crushed between two walls. One side: the man who ran. The other: the mother who claims she’s shielding me, but really, she’s suffocating me. All I want is quiet. For my daughter to be loved—even by those who once hurt me.
But in this house, love feels like a punishable offence.
