Last weekend, my husband Daniel’s brother was hosting a party for his son Jason’s 7th birthday. My 6-year-old daughter, Ellie, was over the moon.
She had carefully chosen a gift all on her own—a bright Pokémon set she said Jason would “totally love.” She even picked out her favorite sparkly dress. “I want to look nice for the pictures!” she beamed.
My heart melted.
We dropped her off, gave her a big hug, and promised her we’d be back soon after having a little couple’s time.
About an hour later, my phone buzzed. I smiled, thinking maybe Ellie wanted to tell me about the party.
But when I answered, my world tilted.
She was crying so hard she could barely breathe.
“Mommy… can you please come get me? Grandma kicked me out… I’m in the backyard.”
I swear my heart stopped.
Daniel and I tore down the streets like maniacs. When we arrived, Ellie was standing in the yard, clutching her small wrapped gift, her cheeks streaked with tears, her sparkly dress dusted with dirt.
Daniel scooped her up instantly, holding her so tight his knuckles turned white. I, on the other hand, stormed straight into the house.
The sound of laughter, clinking plates, and party chatter hit me like a slap. And there she was—Carol, my MIL—sitting at the table, casually eating cake like nothing had happened.
“WHY IS ELLIE OUTSIDE?!” I demanded, my voice shaking.
The room fell silent. Everyone froze, forks hovering mid-air.
Carol dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin, turned to me slowly, and said, clear as day:
“She doesn’t belong here. Jason’s party is for family.”
The floor seemed to vanish beneath me. My ears rang.
Before I could speak, Daniel’s voice thundered from behind me, trembling with rage as he held Ellie close:
“Mom, what the hell did you just say?”