When we brought our newborn daughter Grace home from the hospital, I imagined laying her down in the sage-green nursery we had prepared with so much love — my late mother’s white crib standing proudly, her hand-stitched daisy blankets folded neatly at the foot. Instead, the moment we opened the door, my heart dropped. The walls were painted dark navy. The curtains were gone, the rug stripped away, the crib dismantled. Every drawer, every closet — empty.
And there, in the doorway, stood my mother-in-law, Patricia, rubber gloves on her hands and a self-satisfied smile on her face. “I fixed the room,” she announced. “Babies need stimulation.” Then came the real blow. She admitted she had thrown out my mother’s blankets and replaced the crib, calling them “unsafe.” And finally, her true reason spilled out: she had been expecting a boy. To her, our daughter wasn’t “a real heir.”
Evan’s jaw tightened. Without a word, he took Grace gently from my arms, demanded Patricia’s house key, and ordered her out. Later, in the garage, he found my mom’s blankets stuffed in a trash bag. That night, the two of us stayed up until 3 a.m., reassembling the crib and putting the nursery back the way it was meant to be.
By the next morning, Patricia’s number was blocked. My aunt came over with paint, and by evening, the room was green again. We changed the locks. Now, Grace sleeps peacefully surrounded by the things we chose for her — safe, cherished, and perfect exactly as she is.