My Son, Not Yours,” Declared the Mother-in-Law as She Took Her Grandchild from the Playground

**Diary Entry**

*Friday, 3rd November*

*”Hes my son, not yours,”* my mother-in-law said coldly, gripping my little boys hand and leading him away from the playground.

I stood frozen, my heart pounding once, twice, then dropping like a stone. I watched as Olivermy songlanced back at me, blinking in confusion, but he didnt cry. He didnt reach for me or call out, *”Mummy!”* He just walked beside her, holding her fingers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

*”Wait!”* The word tore from me. *”Oliver, stop!”*

She didnt turn. Just tightened her grip on him and quickened her pace.

*”Mum!”* I ran after them, my voice breaking. *”What are you doing? Hes my child!”*

She spun around, her face hard. *”And mine too. Youve always been an outsider in this family. Always will be.”*

I stopped dead. My throat closed up. The world seemed to pausethe children on the swings, the rustling leaves, even the sparrows chattering on the bench. Only my heartbeat roared in my ears, loud enough to drown out everything else.

I walked home in a daze. The flat was empty. Simon, my husband, had rushed off to an urgent shift at the factory. Before he left, wed arguedagainabout his mother, about her constant interference, about how she treated Oliver as hers, not mine.

*”You dont know how to handle him,”* Simon would say. *”Mum knows best.”*

*”Hes my son,”* Id snap back. *”I carried him, fed him, stayed up every night when he was ill. And youre telling me your mother knows better?”*

*”Dont shout,”* hed mutter. *”Shes older. More experienced.”*

*”Experienced?”* Id laugh bitterly. *”Shes been taking him from me since he was in nappies! Never asking, just dragging him off. And you say nothing!”*

*”What am I supposed to do?”* Hed shrug. *”Shes my mum. I cant stop her from seeing her grandson.”*

*”You could tell her this is our family,”* Id say. *”That we make the rules. That youre his father, not her.”*

But hed just turn away. And every time, Id feel the wall between us growthin, but unbreakable, like concrete.

Oliver was threea quiet, sweet boy who loved drawing, watching cartoons, and playing with his toy cars. Everything wouldve been perfect if not for her.

She came every morning without fail. By the time Id finished making breakfast, shed be at the door, handbag in tow.

*”Ill take Oliver to the park,”* shed say. *”You need a break.”*

*”Im not tired,”* Id reply. *”Well go ourselves.”*

*”Dont be silly,”* shed wave me off. *”You dont know how to dress him properly. Look at himyouve put his shoes on the wrong feet!”*

*”Its twenty degrees,”* Id argue. *”Hell overheat in that jumper.”*

*”I know best,”* shed cut in. *”I raised three children. Youve raised none.”*

And Id stay silent. Because arguing was pointless. Because Simon always took her side. Because every time I tried to stand my ground, I was called dramatic, hysterical, difficult.

But today, Id had enough. I went to the playground to fetch Oliver. He was in the sandpit, building castles, while she stood over him, phone in hand, chatting away.

*”Oliver, time to go,”* I called.

He looked up and smiled. *”Mummy!”*

Then she stepped in, grabbing his wrist. *”No, were staying. Hes busy.”*

*”Hes my son,”* I said, my voice steady. *”I decide when we leave.”*

*”And Im his grandmother,”* she shot back. *”I have rights too.”*

*”Rights?”* Rage simmered under my skin. *”What rights? You take him from me every single day! Do you want him to forget who I am?”*

*”Dont exaggerate,”* she scoffed. *”I love him. You just shout and stress him out.”*

*”Im his mother!”* I shouted. *”Not you!”*

*”Mother?”* She smirked. *”You cant even put his shoes on right.”*

I looked down. She was righthis little trainers were on the wrong feet. I hadnt noticed. Last night had been roughOliver had been coughing, and I hadnt slept.

*”Im tired,”* I whispered. *”Im not perfect. But I love him. More than anything.”*

*”Love isnt just a feeling,”* she said. *”Its order, discipline, care. And you ruin all of it.”*

Thats when something inside me shattered. Not anger, not hurtjust a quiet, brutal breaking. Like Id been erased from my own childs life.

*”Hes my son, not yours,”* she said. *”And Im leaving with him.”*

And she did.

At home, I sat on the sofa and cried. Not loudly, not dramaticallyjust silent, exhausted tears.

I remembered holding Oliver for the first timesmall, damp, wailing. Whispering, *”Youre mine, mine, my darling.”* Nursing him through cracked nipples, singing lullabies until he drifted off.

And now? Now he walked away with her like she was his mother. And when he looked at me, there was trustbut also doubt. As if he was asking, *Are you really my mum?*

When Simon came home, I was still there.

*”Wheres Oliver?”* he asked.

*”With your mum,”* I said flatly.

*”Again?”* He sighed. *”Well, at least you can rest.”*

*”She told me hes her son. Not mine.”*

Simon went quiet. Then he shrugged. *”You know how she talks. Dont take it to heart.”*

*”And if she means it?”* I asked. *”Do you think that too?”*

*”Dont be daft,”* he frowned. *”Of course not.”*

*”Then why dont you stand up for me?”* My voice cracked. *”Why do you let her take him without a word? Why cant you just say, Mum, this is our family. We raise our son our way?”*

*”Shes older,”* he said. *”She knows better.”*

*”And my opinion means nothing?”*

*”It does,”* he said. *”But dont make things harder.”*

*”Im not,”* I whispered. *”I just want to be his mother. Truly. Not some outsider who gets to play with him sometimes.”*

He didnt answer. Just walked off to the bathroom.

The next day, I went to her house. She opened the door, face blank.

*”What do you want?”*

*”Im taking Oliver home.”*

*”He doesnt want to go with you,”* she said, smirking. *”See?”*

She pushed the door wider. Oliver sat on the floor, drawing. He saw me and smiledbut didnt run over.

*”Mummy,”* he said. *”Granny says youre mean.”*

My blood ran cold.