My first marriage was nothing short of a disaster. My husband seemed charming and attentive at first, but the moment we tied the knot, the mask slipped. Roland never held a steady job, spending his days loitering with mates in alleyways and car parks, claiming he was searching for “decent side work.” He’d come home late, reeking of booze, while the fridge stood empty. Not a penny, not a shred of help—everything fell on me. I worked, hauled groceries, raised our daughter, while he just… existed. Dead weight.
When Alice turned one, I filed for divorce. Not because it was easy. Because it was unbearable. Exhausted and frayed, I made the choice for myself and my girl. Back then, I thought nothing good lay ahead. I was wrong.
Now Alice is nine. She goes to school, loves drawing, and dreams of being a designer. All these years, her biological father never showed up. Not a call, not a toy, not a single pound. I never pressed—no demands for child support, no pleas for involvement. I did what I had to, for her sake.
As for my ex-mother-in-law, Irene Petrova, I barely knew her even when I was officially part of the family. She never visited after the birth, skipped the christening, never once offered help. A few stiff phone calls—that was the extent of her “grandmotherly” role. I accepted it then: not every child gets a doting nan.
Time passed. I met Alex—a man who showed me what love really meant. We married, had a son, Theo. From day one, Alex treated Alice as his own. She calls him “Dad,” blissfully unaware he isn’t by blood. I decided the truth could wait. Let her have a whole family. Let her believe she’s cherished—because it’s not a lie. Alex adores her.
My current mother-in-law, Margaret, is pure gold. She dotes on Alice, hugs her tight as if she were her own. And Alice loves her back. Our home is warm, safe, everything I once yearned for.
Then the past came knocking.
Irene somehow tracked down our new address. At first, I brushed it off. But then a neighbour spotted her in the courtyard—approaching a little girl, spinning lies about being her grandmother, claiming “the cruel mum” kept them apart. Thank God it wasn’t Alice. The girl’s parents called the police and warned me a strange woman was asking after us.
The next day, she rang. No shame, no remorse.
“I’m Alice’s grandmother, and you owe me a meeting. She needs her blood family!”
I barely held back.
“Eight years. Eight years you forgot she existed. Where were you when she was ill? Learning to walk? Where were the birthday cards? The presents? The calls?”
“What matters is I’m here now. You can’t deny family. Let her stay with me first to adjust, then I’ll take her. I’ve a flat free now. Should’ve taken her sooner, but I pitied you back then!”
My hands shook. How could she talk about a child like a misplaced suitcase?
“Listen, you’re nothing to Alice. She doesn’t know you. She has a grandmother she loves. A father who’s there every day. You’ve no right to barge into her life!”
“She’s not even yours! Give my son back what’s his! Or did you forget you fooled around?”
I knew reason wouldn’t work. So I lied—to shield my daughter.
“Fine. Alice isn’t Roland’s. I cheated. That’s why he left. Now leave us alone.”
She spat curses—literally, through the phone—and slammed down. I thought that was it. But she kept texting. Threatening. Calling. Not as a grandmother, but a bitter crone convinced she’d been robbed.
Now I’m gathering papers, heading to the police. No one will wreck my child’s peace. I won’t drag her into the mess that once swallowed me. Alice knows nothing. And she won’t—until it’s time.
Because my daughter deserves calm. Not the sins of strangers.
