When we brought our newborn daughter Grace home from the hospital, I expected to walk into the cozy sage-green nursery we’d lovingly prepared — complete with my late mother’s white crib and hand-stitched daisy blankets. Instead, we opened the door to find the walls painted dark navy, the curtains replaced, the rug gone, and the crib dismantled. Every drawer and closet was empty.
Standing in the doorway, wearing rubber gloves, was my mother-in-law, Patricia. She smiled and said she’d “fixed” the room because “babies need stimulation.” Then she admitted she’d thrown out my mom’s blankets and replaced the crib because they were “unsafe.” The real reason soon spilled out — she’d expected a boy, and our daughter wasn’t “a real heir.”
Evan’s face hardened. He took Grace from my arms, told his mother to hand over her key, and threw her out on the spot. In the garage, he found my mom’s blankets stuffed in a trash bag. That night, we stayed up until 3 a.m. reassembling the crib and putting the nursery back together.
The next morning, we blocked Patricia’s number. My aunt arrived with paint, and by evening the room was green again. We changed all the locks. Now Grace sleeps surrounded by the things we chose for her — loved, safe, and perfect exactly as she is.