When my husband Evan and I left for the hospital to welcome our daughter, Grace, his mother,

Patricia, asked for our house key to “get things ready.” In labor and distracted, I agreed.

Two days later, we returned home to find Grace’s nursery transformed. The sage green walls we’d painted were now dark navy.

My late mother’s white crib was dismantled, and her hand-stitched daisy blankets were gone. Patricia, wearing gloves, claimed the room was “too soft”

and the items “unsafe.” Her real reason soon emerged—she was upset Grace was a girl, saying our family needed a boy to carry on the name.

Evan, furious, told her to leave and took back the key. We later found my mother’s blankets stuffed in a garage trash bag.

That night, we restored the nursery, reassembled the crib, and placed one blanket in Grace’s bed.

Watching her sleep under something made with love reminded us what truly mattered—protecting her from anyone who would make her feel unwanted.

Patricia tried to justify herself and brought a mediator, but we refused. We changed the locks, blocked her,

and surrounded Grace with love. Now six months old, she sleeps peacefully in her grandmother’s crib, wrapped in care.