My mother-in-law, Cheryl, was eager to babysit my 4-year-old daughter, Beverly, every Wednesday while I worked. It seemed like a perfect solution—saving money and giving them time to bond.
For a while, things seemed fine. But soon, Beverly began acting differently. She withdrew from me emotionally and started making odd comments like, “I only like eating with Daddy, Grandma, and her friend,” or “I love Grandma’s friend so much!” When I asked Cheryl, she brushed it off, saying Beverly just had an overactive imagination.
But the distance kept growing, and something felt off. So, against my better judgment, I installed a hidden camera in our living room.
That Wednesday, I checked the footage on my lunch break. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Then I heard Cheryl say something chilling:
“Bev, are you ready? OUR friend will be here soon.”
“Yes, Grandma. I love her!”
“Remember what we talked about?”
“Yes. No telling Mommy.”
My heart sank. Who was this “friend,” and why was Beverly being told to keep her a secret?
The doorbell rang, and Cheryl let in a woman I’d never seen before—tall, confident, with a smug smile. Beverly lit up and ran into her arms like they were deeply connected.
“There’s my favorite girl!” the woman said, holding her like they shared a history.
Cheryl smiled warmly at them. “She’s been counting down the days.”
I rewound the video. Something wasn’t right.
Then I saw Beverly hand the woman a drawing—her and the woman holding hands. Underneath, in shaky letters, it said:
“MOMMY.”
I froze. Who was this woman?
I rushed home early. When I walked in, Beverly was on the couch with Cheryl, chatting happily. The woman was already gone.
Cheryl looked surprised. “You’re home early.”
I forced a smile and sat next to Beverly. “Did you have a good day, sweetheart?”
“Yes! Grandma’s friend came again!”
I asked her name. Beverly glanced at Cheryl before whispering, “Olivia.”
I didn’t know anyone named Olivia.
I turned to Cheryl. “Who is Olivia?”
Cheryl rolled her eyes. “Just an old family friend.”
I pressed further. “Then why did Beverly call her ‘Mommy’ in the drawing?”
That’s when Beverly quietly said, “Because she is my mommy.”
Time stopped.
Cheryl sighed. “I was going to tell you, but I knew you’d overreact. Olivia is Beverly’s biological mother.”
I felt like the floor had dropped out from under me.
“She left. She gave up her rights!” I stammered.
“People change,” Cheryl said calmly.
I knelt down beside Beverly. “Do you know what adoption means?”
She nodded. “Grandma said Olivia had to go away, but now she’s back because she loves me.”
I looked at Cheryl, furious and heartbroken. “You had no right. You made this decision without me.”
Cheryl’s response? “Olivia deserves a chance. She’s her real mother.”
That was the breaking point. Cheryl had never truly seen me as Beverly’s mom.
I stood. “Get out.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“No,” I said firmly. “You crossed a line. You don’t get to decide who’s in Beverly’s life. I do.”
Cheryl glared as she left, muttering, “You’ll regret this.”
In the following weeks, I worked gently with Beverly, helping her understand that while Olivia gave birth to her, I was the one who’d always been there—the one who loved her unconditionally, every single day.
Beverly stopped asking for Olivia.
Cheryl was allowed limited, supervised visits. Never again would I give her that kind of power.
As for Olivia, I agreed to meet her—once. She said she regretted leaving, wanted another chance. But I looked her in the eye and said:
“Beverly already has a mom. And it’s me.”
She nodded through tears and left. She never returned.
If something feels wrong, trust your instincts. Protecting the ones you love might mean making impossible choices—but sometimes, those are the ones that matter most.