When my husband Evan and I left for the hospital in the early hours of the morning, we were focused on welcoming our daughter, Grace, into the world. On the way, his mother, Patricia, texted asking for our house key so she could “get things ready” for the baby. Still in the haze of contractions, I agreed, never imagining what that decision would lead to. Two days later, we came home exhausted but happy—until we opened the door to Grace’s nursery.
The soft sage green walls we had painted together were gone, replaced by dark navy. My late mother’s white crib lay dismantled on the floor, and the hand-stitched daisy blankets she had made were missing. Patricia appeared, wearing rubber gloves, smiling as if she’d done us a favor. She said the room had been “too soft” and that she had thrown away the crib and blankets because they were “unsafe.” Then she revealed the real reason—she was upset Grace was a girl, insisting our family needed a boy to carry on the name
