On Christmas Day, my parents banned my two-month-old daughter from attending the family party. My mom texted me,
“I forbid you from bringing Wendy. Your daughter is disgusting and will ruin everything.”
When I showed up anyway, my father grabbed the baby carrier from my hands.
“We said no.”
My mother slapped me hard.
“You never listen.”
Sister added,
“Some babies just don’t belong.”
When I tried to take my baby back, my brother pushed me down.
“Get out now.”
Dad threw my baby outside.
“Now go run after her.”
What I did next enraged my 84-year-old grandma who was watching from her chair. I pulled out my phone and started recording everything they were doing.
Grandma stood up shaking with anger, and what she did afterward left everyone at the party stunned.
The text message arrived three days before Christmas. I was nursing Wendy in the rocking chair when my phone buzzed against the armrest.
My mother’s name flashed across the screen and I opened the message with my free hand, expecting holiday coordination details or maybe a grocery list for dishes I should bring.
Instead, the words felt like ice water down my spine.
I forbid you from bringing Wendy. Your daughter is disgusting and will ruin everything.
I read it twice, then three times, certain I’d misunderstood.
My hands started shaking so badly that I nearly dropped the phone. Wendy made a small sound of protest as my body tensed, and I forced myself to breathe slowly, trying not to disturb her feeding.
The message sat there on my screen, each word more incomprehensible than the last.
This was my mother talking about her own granddaughter, a tiny eight-week-old baby who’d done nothing except exist.
My daughter had been born with a port-wine birthmark that covered the left side of her face, stretching from her temple down to her jaw. The doctors assured us it was purely cosmetic, nothing that would affect her health or development.
They explained treatment options for when she got older, laser therapy that could lighten the mark significantly.
My husband Grant and I had accepted this immediately. We saw our beautiful daughter, perfect in every way that mattered.
Apparently, my family saw something else entirely.
The comments had started in the hospital.
My mother had walked into the recovery room, taken one look at Wendy, and her face had twisted into something I’d never seen before. She’d recovered quickly, pasting on a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, but the damage was already done.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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