Off The Record
At Her Birthday Party, My Son’s New Wife Mocked The Gift My Granddaughter Got Her—But She Regretted It When I Gave Her Mine
Before the young girl gave her a homemade gift, my granddaughter’s stepmother believed that her birthday was all about her. Everyone in the room was reminded by what transpired next that cruelty can cost you everything, but love cannot be purchased.
I felt like my world had ended when my daughter Rachel passed away. However, my granddaughter, who is her daughter, ended up being my lifesaver. And until her father remarried and brought a nasty woman into our home, I was hers.
Rachel was just 34 years old when she died five years ago.
I was standing outside an emergency room one minute, and the next she was messaging me to ask if we should have stir-fry or spaghetti for supper. I had my knuckles white from holding my handbag so hard.
They described it as a sudden, catastrophic brain aneurysm. The physicians referred to it as “unpreventable,” as if that were helpful.
Ella, Rachel’s young daughter, was just eight years old. I still recall the blank expression on her face when I informed her that her mother would not be returning home.
At first, instead of crying, she simply stared at me and blinked slowly, as though she was attempting to fix the situation like a broken toy. My granddaughter was too small to comprehend why her mother’s laugh abruptly stopped, but she was old enough to recall it.
She scurried into my bed that night and held on to me as if her life depended on it. Perhaps it did.
Michael, her father, retreated into his work, as many men do when the burden becomes too great. He worked vacations, weekends, and evenings. I never once placed the blame on him. Grief is handled differently by each person. Mine made me want to cling more tightly. He disappeared into overtime and spreadsheets because of him.
So I took over.
At the time, I was 57, but on some days, I felt 80. I took her up from school, learnt how to pack school lunches once more, became proficient in fourth-grade math, and assisted her with other assignments. I even mastered the Disney Channel.
Ella made going to bed a spiritual ritual. She would tell me school stories while I braided her hair. I used to hum the lullaby my mother used to sing to me, the same one Rachel adored when she was her age, whenever she had nightmares.
I taught her how to crochet because we needed something to tie us together. We sat together for hours in front of the large window in the living room because she was awful at first but liked the sound of the needles, saying they sounded like “tiny heartbeats.” We created lumpy blankets and crooked scarves while discovering an odd sense of calm in between each stitch.
Michael presented a new person two years after Rachel’s death. Brittany was her name.
I genuinely wanted to be helpful. When he mentioned her, I grinned. When they invited her over for dinner, I even made a lemon cake.
No one should be alone forever, I told myself, and perhaps Ella would find a mother figure who could love her the way I could only attempt to do. In actuality, though, Brittany never considered Ella a bonus.
She treated her like a piece of luggage.
Early on, I could see the signs. When my granddaughter attempted to speak to her, she would feign a tight smile. She would correct her manners in front of others, but not in the sense of “helping her grow”; rather, she would do it to cover up a social humiliation.
“You spoil her, Helen. That’s not doing her any favours,” Brittany once said, loud enough for me to hear, when I brought Ella home from a weekend with me.
I bit my tongue, though.
I kept expecting that she would warm up with time and that perhaps her tone was merely nervous. However, the coldness only grew after Michael wed her in a destination wedding.
At the time, I was sixty-two.
Even though I had raised Ella virtually alone, she continued to spend weekends with me and her nightly calls went on as usual.
“Goodnight, Grandma. I love you.”
She spoke as though she had to tell me. In a world where love was beginning to feel like a reward she had to earn, it was as though I were her rock.
Ella always tried to please Brittany and was kind to her, but her stepmother viewed her more like a chore than a kid to be loved.
I would take note of the small details when I went. The moment Brittany entered the room, my granddaughter’s giggling stopped. Ella’s paintings were placed to the side of the refrigerator, and her toys were stashed away in closets so “the house would look tidier.”
“Grandma, she tells me I shouldn’t call her Mom, but I can’t call her Brittany either. She says it sounds disrespectful,” Ella once whispered to me.
My heart hurt, but I made an effort to remain composed. “Just call her what feels right to you, sweetheart,” I said softly. “What matters is that you stay kind. Don’t let her coldness freeze your heart.”
Ella was toying with a skein of lavender yarn in her lap while sitting cross-legged on my couch one evening.
“Grandma,” quietly said, “Brittany’s birthday is coming up. I wanna make her something. Maybe if I do, she’ll… like me more.”
I wanted to say that she didn’t require Brittany’s blessing. I wanted to pick her up and reassure her that she was sufficient. However, I could see the hope in her eyes. Some individuals only feel big when they make others feel small, but she was too young to know that.
I replied, “That’s a beautiful idea, sweetheart. What do you want to make?”
She said, “A jumper,” with shining eyes. “But I want it to be good. Can you teach me the fancy stitch? The one from Mom’s old scarf?”
After purchasing the yarn with her savings, she knitted the jumper for four weeks, putting love into each stitch. She would do her homework quickly every afternoon after school in order to spend time with me while holding that yarn on her lap.
She kept trying until her little fingers hurt, dropping sutures and picking them up again. However, she never quit up.
Ella made sure the neckline was exactly how she had envisioned it and added uneven but endearing white borders to the sleeves. She held it up like a trophy when it was finished.
“It’s not perfect,” she stated, “but it’s warm. I think she’ll like it!”
I gave her head a kiss on top. “If she doesn’t, that’s her loss.”
I took Ella to their home on the day of the celebration. She carried the gift in a pink paper bag that she had embellished with stickers and glitter while wearing a light yellow outfit. She smiled despite my tactful warning not to have high expectations.
Brittany looked like a catalogue model when she opened the door. Her nails were done in an expensive-looking shade of nude, her hair was curled, and her lipstick was perfect.
She chirped, “Helen! You made it,” and then looked down at Ella. “And look at you, little lady. Don’t you look adorable.”
Ella used both hands to pass the bag to her.
“Happy birthday,” she whispered.
Without another look, Brittany accepted the gift, grinned briefly, and put it on a side table.
“Thanks, sweetie. I’ll open it with the others.”
It was a production party. There were at least thirty people present, all of them laughing like they were on reality TV and clinking glasses. Between groups, a photographer scurried around taking unscripted pictures of Brittany laughing or sipping champagne gingerly.
Candles and flower arrangements adorned the house, along with a little placard that read, “Brittany’s Birthday Bash: Class and Sass.”
Michael, obviously out of place, hovered close to the bar. He glanced at me once and smiled wearily, but he never approached. He had the appearance of a man gradually settling into a life he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted.
After supper, Brittany summoned everyone into the living room with a clap of her palms. “Time for gifts!” she exclaimed, settling herself into a plush armchair like it was a throne.
Designer purses, shoes, a spa coupon, pricey perfumes, and wine glasses with monograms were all present. After each one, she posed, gushed, and squealed.
Then she grabbed Ella’s purse.
Brittany’s voice was as rigid as cardboard and as sweet as honey. “Let’s see what this little one made me,” she remarked.
With her fists clutched so tightly that her knuckles became white, Ella leaned forward in her chair.
Brittany took out the folded purple jumper from the pink bag. There was silence in the room. The difference from all the shouting and applause earlier wasn’t the only thing. The way Ella watched her, her mouth slightly open, eyes wide, as if she were presenting a part of herself for scrutiny, had a hallowed quality.
Using two fingers, her stepmother grasped the jumper by the sleeves while gazing at it as though it had unexpectedly crept out of the bag.
She grinned, “Oh,” but it wasn’t the kind of smile you give a youngster when you’re touched. It was the type of flash you make when you’re trying to avoid gagging in public.
“You made this yourself, sweetie?”
Ella gave a nod. “Yes, I did. Grandma helped me a little, but I did most of it myself. I learnt how to knit, and I wanted to make you something really special.”
Brittany gave a single, scathing laugh, neither warm nor amused.
“Well, isn’t that… adorable,” she remarked, clutching the jumper to her chest. “A little homespun number. Very… rustic.”
There was an uneasy laugh from someone in the crowd. Someone else cleared their throat.
She said, “But oh, honey, you should’ve asked me what I wanted. Couldn’t you have asked your father to buy me something decent? And this colour… ugh. Sorry, dear, but this jumper is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen!”
She held the jumper out like a comedy prop as she turned to face the audience and laughed.
“But hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?”
It tittered in the room. Some of her friends smiled pathetically. They chuckled behind their wine glasses as one woman murmured something to another.
Ella’s eyes began to well up with tears, and her face broke.
My breaking point was that. I got to my feet.
The room fell silent when my chair scraped the hardwood floor.
I didn’t speak louder. I didn’t have to.
“You’re right, Brittany,” I replied. “It’s not from an expensive store. It didn’t come in a fancy box or with a price tag.”
She gave a stifled little laugh. “Oh, Helen, it’s just a bit of fun—”
“No,” I replied as I crossed the room, taking my time. “It’s not fun, it’s cruel. That little girl spent weeks knitting that jumper with love and hope, and her own two hands. And you mocked her in front of 30 people.”
As if uncertain of what to do with the jumper at this point, Brittany continued to hold it awkwardly and blinked.
She shrugged and added, “Well, I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings,” “It’s just a bit childish, don’t you think? It’s fine to get handmade items when you’re a child. I mean, what am I supposed to do with this as an adult?”
Disregarding her inquiry, I reached for the tiny, gleaming golden box I had earlier set beneath my chair. Ella had picked out the ribbon that was used to knot it.
I continued, “Tonight, I also brought a gift. It’s something much more valuable,” as I passed the box on the table and walked over to her. “Since you care so much about grown-up gifts.”
Despite her hesitation, Brittany reached out. She rubbed her hands together as her eyes brightened, believing it to be yet another lavish present. Then she stared when she opened the lid.
She pulled out a white envelope on top of folded papers and said, “What is this?”
Simply, “The deed to my house,” I said. “Signed over to Ella this morning.”
There was a gasp in the room.
As if someone had thrown cold water in her face, Brittany blinked.
“You… gave your house to her?”
“That’s right,” I informed them. “That’s the house Rachel grew up in. It’s where Ella made that jumper, where she learnt to braid, and how to grieve. It’s full of love, the kind you clearly don’t recognise.”
Brittany’s mouth opened, but nothing escaped. Her cheeks were flaming crimson as she sat there with an envelope in one hand and a jumper in the other.
I leaned in just enough so she could hear me well.
“So next time you humiliate a child in your own living room, remember—you might be standing in her house.”
This time, nobody clapped or laughed. Not even the music was playing anymore.
Michael’s jaw was clenched as he stood close to the kitchen, his gaze darting between Ella and me. He remained still.
I looked across to the visitors.
I remarked, “Thank you all for a… memorable evening,” and extended my hand to Ella.
Silently, she got up and accepted it. Together, we walked out past the costly candle displays, the shimmering lights, and the woman who considered cruelty to be in style.
The autumn air outside was like a fresh start.
Ella gazed up at me, her lip quivering and her cheeks heated.
“Grandma…” she muttered on. “That was really big. What you did.”
I cupped her face in my palms while kneeling next to her.
“Sweetheart,” I replied gently, “some people need to learn that kindness is a gift too. And if they can’t appreciate it, then they don’t deserve to receive it.”
She blinked away the tears that filled her eyes.
Silently, we clasped hands on the centre console and drove home. Just as before the party, the purple jumper was folded and resting on her lap, but this time it felt heavier, as if it had absorbed the night.
“Maybe I’ll make another one someday. For someone who deserves it,” she added quietly as she placed the jumper on the couch and straightened out the sleeves when we arrived at her home.
“That’s my girl!” I murmured as I gave her a tight hug.
The doorbell rang the following morning. When I opened it, Michael was standing there with his face drawn and his eyes tired.
He remarked, “I didn’t know it was that bad,” “I didn’t know she was treating Ella like that.”
I rested my weight on the door frame.
“Yes, you did,” I remarked softly. “You just didn’t want to look at it too closely.”
He bowed his head. “You’re right.”
He hesitated, then raised his head once again.
“Thank you. For protecting her. I should have been the one.”
When I said, “It’s not too late,” “She still needs you.”
He gave a nod.
He began to reappear after that day. Small gestures, not big, spectacular ones. He arrived to collect Ella from school. He joined us for Friday dinners and enquired about her art club.
Michael even started acting like a parent once more, rather than just a man navigating the rubble.
Brittany did not make contact. She didn’t say sorry. People chatted, but the party photographs never made it on social media. She was upset about being embarrassed, according to a few of our common acquaintances, but she never brought up Ella or the jumper.
Excellent.
In that stillness, let her stew.
But Ella became more confident.
She assisted younger children in learning the fundamentals of knitting after joining the school’s knitting club. She gave the shelter scarves. For a girl in her class whose mother had cancer, she made a blanket. As we sipped cocoa on the porch swing one evening, she remarked, “Grandma, I think maybe people need more warm things. Not just on the outside. On the inside, too.”
I grinned so painfully.
“Oh, sweetheart,” I replied, “that’s exactly what your mother used to say.”
Now Trending:
- She Was Arrested At 91 For Stealing Medicine—What The Judge Said Next Left The Courtroom In Tears
- My Daughter Told Me To Sleep In The Paddock — Until The Truth In My Suitcase Turned Her Whole World Upside Down
- Our Neighbor Smashed My Son’s Puppy’s House—But Karma Reached Him Before I Could
Please let us know your thoughts and SHARE this story with your Friends and Family!
