My daughters dad passed away when she was only three, so for years it was just the two of us against the world.
Eventually, I married Andrew. He treats Sophie like shes his ownmakes her packed lunches, helps her with homework projects, and does story time every night before bed. He really is her dad in every sense. But his mum, Margaret, just never saw it that way.
Once, she actually said to Andrew, Its sweet, you pretending shes your real daughter.
Another time: Stepchildren never truly feel like family.
And the comment that always chilled me to the bone: Your daughter reminds you of her late dad, that must be so hard for you.
Andrew would shut it down every time, but the remarks just never stopped.
We dealt with it by keeping visits short and conversation light, avoiding any big family drama for Sophies sake.
Then, Margaret crossed a line from nasty little digs to outright cruelty.
Sophies such a loving kid. When December rolled around, she announced she wanted to crochet 80 hats for kids in childrens hospices over Christmas.
She learned the basics off YouTube and spent her pocket money on her very first batch of yarn.
Every day after school, it became a little ritual: homework, quick snack, and then the gentle click of her crochet hook.
I was beyond proudher determination and kindness bowled me over. Never in a million years did I imagine how quickly it could all go wrong.
Every time she finished a hat, shed show it to us and then add it to a big carrier bag by her bed.
Andrew had to go away for a couple of days on a work trip. By that point, Sophie was on hat number 80, so close to finishing her target.
But with Andrew away, Margaret saw her chance.
Any time Andrew was away, Margaret would pop roundsometimes, I think, to check the house was up to scratch, or just to nosey about how we coped without him. Honestly, I stopped trying to work her out.
That afternoon, Sophie and I came home from Tesco, her excited to choose yarn colours for the last hat. Not five seconds later, I heard her scream.
Mum MUM!
I dropped the bags and ran, heart in my mouth.
She was on her bedroom floor, absolutely beside herself with tears, the big bag of finished hats gone from beside her bed.
I dropped to my knees and pulled her tight, trying to make sense of her broken sobs. Then I heard Margarets voice behind me.
There she was, calmly sipping tea from my favourite mug, like she was auditioning for some villain in a BBC period drama.
If youre looking for those hats, I binned them, she said, deadpan. Absolute waste of time. Why should she spend her money on strangers?
You binned eighty hats meant for poorly kids?! I couldnt believe itgenuinely thought Id misheard.
Margaret just rolled her eyes. They were ugly. Odd colours, shoddy stitching Shes not my blood and doesnt represent my family, but you really shouldnt encourage such pointless hobbies.
They werent pointless Sophie whimpered, fresh tears soaking through my jumper.
Margaret sighed dramatically and walked out. Sophie broke down sobbing harder, heart shattered by her grandmothers cruelty.
I wanted to chase after Margaret and scream at her, but Sophie needed me. I held her close, rocking her until her breathing settled. And when she finally calmed enough to let go, I marched outside and started rooting through our wheelie bins and even the neighbours, determined to salvage what I could.
But they werent there. Margaret must have binned them somewhere else.
That night, Sophie cried herself to sleep and I sat by her bed until her breathing evened out, then made my way to the sofa and finally let myself cry.
I nearly called Andrew so many times but decided to wait, knowing he needed to focus for work.
Little did I know, Margarets cruelty was about to blow our whole family wide open.
When Andrew finally got home, I regretted not telling him straight away.
Wheres my girl? he called, all warmth and love. Did you finish your last hat while I was away?
Sophie was watching telly, but as soon as he said hats, she crumpled into tears again.
Andrews face fell. Sophie, darling, whats happened?
I pulled him into the kitchen and quietly, out of Sophies earshot, told him the whole story.
As I spoke, all the gentle, travel-weary confusion on his face drained away, replaced by something cold and angry Id never seen before.
I dont even know what she did with them! I finished. I searched the bins, but theyre just gone. She must have gotten rid of them somewhere else.
He went straight back to Sophie, sat beside her, and hugged her. Sweetheart, Im so sorry I wasnt here. But I promise youGrandma will never hurt you again. Ever.
He kissed her head, then grabbed his car keys from the hallway, looking at me. Where are you going? I asked.
Ive got to try and fix this. Ill be back soon, he whispered.
Almost two hours later, he was back.
I hurried downstairs to ask how it went and found him in the kitchen, phone to his ear.
Mum, come round, he was saying, voice weirdly calm compared to the storm on his face. Ive got a surprise for you.
Margaret turned up about half an hour later.
Andrew, Im here for my surprise! she announced, breezing past me like I wasnt even there. Had to cancel my dinner booking for this, so itd better be good.
He lifted a large bin bag and opened itthere they were. Sophies hats, every last one.
It took an hour to go through the bins at your block, but I found them. He pulled out a pastel yellow oneone of Sophies first attempts. This isnt just a kids hobby. Its her trying to bring a little joy to children who are ill. And you tried to take that away.
Margaret scoffed. So you actually went rummaging through rubbish? Good grief, Andrew, youre being ridiculous over a bunch of ugly hats.
Theyre not ugly, and you didnt just insult her project, his voice cracked. You insulted MY daughter. You broke her heart
Oh, give it a rest! Margaret snapped. Shes not your daughter.
Andrew froze for a moment. Finally, I think he really saw who his mum was. That this would never stop.
Get out, he said quietly. I mean it. Were done.
What? Margaret gasped.
You heard me. You wont be seeing Sophie again.
Margarets face turned beetroot red. Andrew! Im your mother! Youd do that over wool?
And Im a fatherto a ten-year-old girl who clearly needs protecting from YOU.
Margaret turned to me, absolutely appalled. And youre just letting him do this? she spluttered.
Absolutely, I said. You chose to be toxic, Margaret. This is the bare minimum of what you deserve.
She just gawked at us, lost for words, finally realising shed been cut out.
Youll regret this, she spat, slamming the door behind her hard enough to rattle the picture frames.
But of course, it wasnt over.
The house was quiet for daystoo quiet. Sophie never mentioned the hats and didnt pick up her crochet once. Margarets nastiness had all but broken her spirit, and I was at a loss for how to fix it.
Andrew came home one evening with a massive cardboard box as Sophie was having her cereal at the table.
She blinked up at him. Whats that?
He opened it to reveal bundles of new yarn, crochet hooks, and some wrapping supplies.
If you want to start over, Ill help you. Im utterly hopeless at this, but Ill learn if youll teach me.
He picked up a crochet hook with all the grace of a dog driving a car. Will you teach me?
Sophie giggled for the first time in days.
His early attempts were, shall we say, tragicbut within two weeks, Sophie hit her 80 hats again. We sent them off by post, not suspecting for a second that Margaret would try to crawl back into our lives.
Two days after the parcels arrived, I got an email from the hospices manager, thanking Sophie for her hats and explaining theyd brought a proper smile to the childrens faces.
She wanted our permission to post some photos of the kids in their hats to the hospices social media.
Sophie nodded, a shy but glowing smile spreading across her face.
The post went viral.
Loads of lovely comments poured in from people wanting to know about the kind-hearted girl who made the hats. I let Sophie reply from my account.
Im so glad they got the hats! she wrote. My grandma threw away the first lot, but my dad helped me make them again.
Margaret rang Andrew later that day in floods of tears, absolutely hysterical.
People are calling me a monster! Im being trolled everywhere! Take that post down! she sobbed.
Andrew didnt raise his voice once. We didnt post anything, Mum. The hospice did. If you dont like people knowing what you did, you should have behaved better.
She kept blubbing. Im being bullied! This is awful!
Andrews reply was simple: You earned it.
Now, Sophie and Andrew keep up their crochet every weekend. Our house feels peaceful againthe comfy, gentle click of two hooks in sync.
Margaret still sends a text every Christmas and birthday, never an apology, just asking if we can make amends.
And every time, Andrew just replies, No.
Our home is calm again. And thats exactly how I want it.
