When I returned from a peaceful weekend away, I wasn’t expecting to find my daughter’s beloved flowerbed gone. In its place stood a line of cheerful, grinning garden gnomes—brightly painted, sure, but not at all what belonged there. My heart sank. My daughter Amy had poured her heart into that little garden, and now it was just… gone.
Let me rewind for a moment.
Amy has loved gardening since she was little. When she turned twelve, my husband Stephen and I gave her her very own garden bed. She designed it herself, filled it with tulips, daffodils, and native plants she picked out with such care. She watered it every day, researched which plants grew best in our area, and decorated it with painted stones.
It wasn’t just a flowerbed. It was hers—a quiet place where she felt proud, creative, and in control.
My husband’s mother, Gloria, had never been very warm toward Amy or me. From the start, she made it clear she had her own opinions about our family—especially about Amy, who is my daughter from a previous relationship. Still, we tried to keep things civil. When she offered to dog-sit for us while we took a weekend trip, I hoped for the best.
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