The mother-in-law remembered her granddaughter after eight years—and decided she could take her.
My first marriage was nothing short of a disaster. My husband seemed attentive, polite, but the moment we said our vows, the mask slipped. Roland never held down a job, loitering in alleyways and pubs with his mates, always claiming he was searching for “decent side work.” He’d stumble home late, reeking of cheap lager, while the fridge sat empty. Not a penny, not a shred of help—just me, carrying everything. I worked, hauled shopping bags, raised our daughter, while he simply existed beside me. Dead weight.
When Alice turned one, I filed for divorce. Not because it was easy. Because it was unbearable. Exhausted and broken, I did it for myself and my girl. Back then, I thought nothing good would come after. I was wrong.
Now Alice is nine. She goes to school, loves sketching, dreams of being a designer. All this time, her biological father never showed. Not a call, not a toy, not a single pound. I never pushed—no demands for child support, no pleas for involvement. I survived for her.
As for my former mother-in-law, Irene, I hadn’t seen her even when I was still the dutiful daughter-in-law. She never came to the hospital, the christening, never once offered help. A handful of stiff phone calls—that was the extent of her “grandmotherly” affection. I accepted it—not every child gets a doting nan.
Time passed. I met Alex—a man who taught me what love was. We married, had a son, Theo. Alex embraced Alice as his own from day one. She calls him “Dad,” never suspecting he isn’t by blood. I decided the truth could wait. Let her have a whole family. Let her believe she’s wanted, loved—because it’s not a lie. Alex adores her.
My mother-in-law now, Margaret, is pure gold. She calls Alice her granddaughter, spoils her, hugs her tight as if she were flesh and blood. And my girl loves her back. Our home is warmth, comfort, peace. Everything I once lacked.
Then the past slithered back in.
Somehow, Irene found our new address. At first, I thought it was chance. Then a neighbor spotted her in the courtyard—she’d approached a little girl playing by the steps, claiming to be her grandmother, that her “wicked mum” kept them apart. Thank God it wasn’t Alice. The girl’s parents called the police, warned me a strange woman was asking after us.
A day later, she rang. No shame, no remorse.
“I’m Alice’s grandmother, and you owe me a meeting. A child needs her blood family!”
I barely held my tongue.
“Eight years. Eight years you forgot she existed. Where were you when she was ill? Learning to walk? Where were the birthday cards? Presents? Calls?”
“What matters is I’m here now. You can’t deny family. Let her stay with me—just for a while. Then I’ll take her. I’ve got a spare flat now. Should’ve taken her sooner, but I pitied you back then!”
My hands shook. Who speaks about a child like luggage left at a lost-and-found?
“Listen—you’re nothing to Alice. She doesn’t know you. She has a grandmother she loves. A dad who’s there every day. You’ve no right to barge into her life!”
“She’s not even yours! Give my son’s mother her due! Or did you forget you slept around?”
I knew reason wouldn’t stop her. So I lied—to shield my daughter.
“Fine. You’re right. Alice isn’t Roland’s. I cheated. That’s why he left. Now leave us alone.”
Irene spat at me—literally, through the phone—and slammed the receiver down. I thought that was the end. But the texts came. Threats. Calls. No longer a grandmother—just a bitter crone, convinced she’d been robbed.
Now I’m gathering papers, heading to the police. No one will wreck my child’s life. I won’t drag her into the filth and pain that once swallowed me. Alice knows nothing. And she won’t—until it’s time.
Because my daughter deserves peace. Not the sins of strangers.