How could you let your ex-mother-in-law see the child? Have you no pride, no shame?—that’s what my own mother said to me.
Last week, my daughter turned two. A small birthday celebration, one I planned alone, doing my best with what little I had—no help, no extra money. The child’s father didn’t even remember. Not a call, not a text. But his mother, my ex-mother-in-law, did. She rang, wished her granddaughter a happy birthday, and asked to see her. And I, seeing no harm in it, agreed. She’s her grandmother, after all. 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 sweets, and an envelope with some cash. We went to the park, walked around, then stopped by my place. I even smiled. But it all fell apart when my mother came home.
“Have you lost your mind?” she hissed the second she stepped inside. “Letting that… that woman near your child! You should’ve kicked her out! And taking her gifts—have you no self-respect?”
She paced the flat, arms flailing, ranting about how the toy was cheap rubbish, the sweets were poison, and the money was nothing but charity. Even after she stopped speaking, her words hissed in my head all night. She said Margaret was the “good grandmother,” while she, my own mother, was the “wicked” one. That I always betray everyone. That she once went penniless for me, and now I was throwing her away for some fancy woman with a BMW.
I divorced my husband a little under a year ago. He left on his own. Packed his things, walked out, and never came back. The flat we’d lived in was registered under his mother’s name. Nothing was mine. Legally, I was nothing. And I had nowhere to go.
Margaret’s solicitor handled the divorce—I still don’t know why, there was nothing to divide. My ex gave up all rights to our daughter immediately. And according to the papers, he had no assets, no income. I asked for nothing—no child support, no furniture. Just one thing—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 in her son’s life—and from what I gather, I wouldn’t be the last. To her, I was just another name on a list. Still, she helped me move—hired removal men, covered the costs. I took only what was mine. That was it.
Now I live with my mother. The three of us crammed into her one-bedroom flat. Child support is pitiful. My ex vanished as if he never existed. Only Margaret reminds me he did. She calls, asks about the baby, brings things now and then.
I didn’t resist. I saw no reason to keep a grandmother from her grandchild. We met at the park. She wore an expensive coat, arrived in a new car, gave my daughter a plush bear and chocolates. That’s all. But at home, all hell broke loose.
My mother raged. Called me a traitor. Said I had no right to let “that woman” near my child. That if the father walked away, the grandmother should too. That I was a disgrace. It got so bad she threw me out—in the middle of the night, my daughter in my arms, nowhere to go.
I stood in the stairwell, wondering—what exactly had I done 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—the man who ran from responsibility. On the other—the mother who pretends to protect me but chokes me instead. All I want is a bit of quiet. For my daughter to be loved—even by those who once hurt me.
But in this house, it seems, love is a punishable offense.
