I never thought my own daughter would stop talking to me. I raised Chloe alone after her father walked out the day she was born. I worked two jobs, missed sleep, but never missed a single school event. She was my whole world.
When she met Ryan, I thought my prayers were answered. He was charming, responsible — the man I’d always hoped she’d find. Then came the happiest news:
“Mom, I’m pregnant!”
I spent months crocheting baby clothes and dreaming of holding my granddaughter. When Ava was born, I was the first to hold her. Her tiny hand gripped my finger, and I thought, this is what love feels like.
But everything changed once they got home.
Ryan stopped letting me visit, saying Chloe was “resting.” My calls went unanswered. Then one day, Chloe called — her voice cold.
“Mom, don’t come here anymore. You embarrassed me at the hospital. You’ll never see Ava again.”
I stood frozen, begging her to explain, but she hung up. Ryan met me at the door days later:
“You’re not welcome here, Linda. Don’t make this harder.”
I cried for weeks. I didn’t understand what I had done wrong. Until one afternoon, at the grocery store, I ran into Claire — the nurse who helped deliver Ava.
When I told her what happened, her face changed. She looked around and whispered:
“Linda… I heard Ryan after the delivery. He was on the phone with his mother. He said he’d make sure Chloe believed you were the problem — that you’d never see the baby.”
My knees nearly gave out. His own mother had told him to destroy my relationship with my daughter.
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