My Daughter Crocheted 80 Hats for Sick Children—Then My Mother-in-Law Threw Them Away and Said, “She…

My daughter knitted eighty hats for poorly childrenthen my mother-in-law chucked them away and told us, Shes not my flesh and blood.

When my daughter, Alice, was three, her father died. For seven years it was just the two of us against the world.

Later, I married Richard. He treats Alice as if she were his ownpacking her lunches, helping with school projects, and reading her favourite stories each night.

Hes her dad in every way that matters, but his mother, Margaret, never saw it like that.

Shes your daughter in name only, she once sniffed to Richard, with a smile that never reached her eyes.

Another time, she declared, Stepchildren never feel like true family.

And the comment that turned my stomach: Your daughter looks just like her dead father. Must be awkward.

Richard did his best to hush her, but the mutterings never really stopped.

So, we kept to short, polite visits, treading carefully to avoid Margarets icy jibes. We tried to keep the peace.

That is, until Margaret stepped out of the realm of spiteful remarks into truly monstrous acts.

Alice has always had a gentle heart. As December approached, she announced that she wanted to knit eighty hats for children spending Christmas in Birminghams childrens hospice.

She learnt the basics from YouTube tutorials and bought her first batch of wool using her own pocket moneyeight pounds fifty, carefully saved for weeks.

Every afternoon after school had its pattern: homework, a quick biscuit, and then the quiet, soothing click of her knitting needles.

I was so proud of her determination and empathy. I never saw the disaster coming.

Each time she finished a hat, shed show it off to us, then carefully place it in a big cloth bag by her bed.

When Richard left for a two-day business trip, she had just one hat left to knit to reach her goal.

His absence gave Margaret the perfect moment to pounce.

Whenever Richard is away, Margaret likes to drop in to check if the house runs properlyor, perhaps, to snoop and see how we manage without her son. I gave up trying to understand her motives.

That afternoon, Alice and I came home with groceries. She shot off to her room, eager to pick out the next wool colour.

Five seconds later, a scream echoed down the hallway.

Mum Mum!

I dropped everything and sprinted to her room.

She was on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Her bed was stripped, and the bag of hats had vanished.

I knelt and hugged her, trying to make sense of her muffled cries, when I heard the clink of a teacup behind me.

There stood Margaret, drinking from my prized china cup as if she were auditioning for the part of an Edwardian villainess in a Sunday night drama.

If youre looking for the hats, I binned them, she announced, cool as you like. Waste of time, wasnt it? Why spend money on strangers?

You threw away eighty hats meant for sick children? I stammered, disbelieving.

Margaret rolled her eyes. They were ugly. Horrible colours, dreadful stitching Shes not my kin; she doesnt represent my family, but thats no reason for you to indulge her silly little hobby.

They werent silly, Alice protested, fresh tears soaking my jumper.

Margaret let out an exasperated huff and left the room. Alices sobs grew wilder, her little heart shattered by Margarets cruelty.

I wanted to chase Margaret down, but Alice needed me. I gathered her onto my lap and held her close, the way only a mother can.

When shed finally cried herself out, I headed outside, determined to salvage what I could.

I scoured our bins, even our neighbours dustbins, but the hats had vanished.

That night, Alice cried herself to sleep.

I stayed with her until her breathing evened out, then drifted into the darkened living room. I stared at the walls, my own tears finally falling.

I nearly rang Richard half a dozen times, but decided to wait, knowing he would need all his focus on the job.

That decision unleashed a storm that would change our family forever.

When Richard came home, I instantly regretted not telling him sooner.

Wheres my girl? he called, voice warm with affection. I want to see the hats. Did you finish the last one while I was away?

Alice was watching telly, but as soon as she heard hats, she burst into tears.

Richards face collapsed. Alice, whats happened?

I pulled him aside into the kitchen and told him everything.

I watched his face crumple from tired, loving dad to a pale, shaking mask of fury; a new, frightening anger Id never seen in him before.

Ive no idea where she took them I finished. I checked the bins. Theyre gone. She took them off somewhere.

He returned to Alice. He knelt and put his arm around her.

Darling, he promised, Im so sorry I wasnt here, but I swearGranny wont ever hurt you again. Never.

He kissed her on the forehead, then got up and grabbed his car keys off the hall table.

Where are you going? I whispered.

Im going to put this right, whatever it takes, he said. Ill be back soon.

Almost two hours later, he returned.

I hurried downstairs and found him talking quietly on the phone.

Mum, Im home, he said, voice eerily calm for a man still red-faced with rage. Pop overIve got a surprise for you.

Margaret arrived half an hour later with her usual brisk stride.

Richard, Im here! Whats this surprise I had to cancel my dinner reservation for? Itd better be worth it, she declared, marching past me as if I were invisible.

Richard produced a huge black bin bag.

When he opened it, I could hardly believe it.

There, inside, were Alices hats.

It took me nearly an hour to go through the bins at your block, Mum, but here they are. He lifted out a soft yellow hat, one of Alices first. This isnt just a childs hobbyits an act of kindness. And you destroyed it.

Margaret curled her lip. Bin-diving? Really, Richard? All for a bag of ugly hats?

Theyre not ugly, and you didnt just insult a project His voice broke. You insulted MY daughter. You broke her heart, and

Oh, dont make a fuss! Margaret snapped. Shes not your real daughter.

Richard fell silent. The truth about Margaret washed over him at lastshe would never stop hurting Alice.

Get out, he said. Were finished.

What? Margaret gasped.

You heard me, Richard snapped. You dont speak to Alice. You dont visit.

Margarets face turned crimson. Richard, Im your mother! Not for a silly ball of wool!

And Im a father, he said, to a ten-year-old girl who needs me to protect herfrom you.

She spun to me and spat something incredible.

Youre really going to let him do this? she demanded.

With pleasure. You made your bed, Margaret.

Her jaw dropped. She darted her eyes from me to Richard and finally realised shed lost.

Youll regret this, she warned, then stormed out, slamming the door so hard the frames rattled.

But it wasnt over.

The next few days were oddly quiet. Not peaceful, just silent. Alice didnt speak of the hats, and she didnt pick up her needles.

Margarets actions had broken her, and I was lost for how to fix it.

Then Richard came home with a giant box. Alice was eating cornflakes at the kitchen table as he set it down.

She blinked. Whats this?

Richard opened the box to reveal fresh skeins of wool, new knitting needles, and pretty wrapping materials.

If youd like to start again Ill help you. Im useless at knitting, but maybe youll teach me?

He held up a needle, fumbled it, and said, Will you show me how?

For the first time in days, Alice laughed.

Richards early attempts were hopelessly wonky, but two weeks later, Alice had made another eighty hats. We posted them off, never imagining Margaret would soon strike again.

A couple of days later, I got an email from the director of the Birmingham hospice.

She thanked Alice for the hats, and wrote that they had brought real, simple joy to the children there.

She asked permission to post pictures of the children in their bright hats on the hospices social media.

Alice nodded, a shy, proud smile on her face.

The post went viral.

We were flooded with messages from people asking about the lovely girl who made the hats. I let Alice reply on my account.

Im just glad the kids got their hats! she wrote. My granny threw the first lot away, but my dad helped me knit them again.

Margaret called Richard later that day, audibly sobbing.

People are calling me a monster! Richard, theyre hounding me! Take it down! she wailed.

Richard didnt even raise his voice. We didnt post anything, Mum. The hospice did. And if you didnt want people to know, maybe you shouldve acted better.

She cried harder. Im being bullied! Its terrible!

Richards reply was final. You earned it.

Now, Alice and Richard knit together every weekend. Our home is peaceful again, full of the gentle click-clack of two sets of needles.

Margaret texts every Christmas and birthday. Shes never apologised, only asks if things can be mended.

All Richard replies is, No.

And now, our home is quietat last.