The Woman in My Child’s Drawings Looked Nothing like Me – When I Found Out Why, I Called My Lawyer

Has life ever thrown you a curveball, one that took a significant amount of time to dodge? I’m Katie, and I’m about to take you on a rollercoaster of a tale. So grab your favorite snack and get comfortable—this story is one for the books.

Let’s set the stage: I’m a working mom with a curly mane of unruly brown hair, and my little world revolves around my adorable daughter, Alice. My husband, Jeff, is often out of town for work, which means Alice spends a good chunk of time at her grandma Darla’s house.

Now, Darla, my mother-in-law, can be a bit… let’s say eccentric on her best days. But what I uncovered recently tipped the scales from quirky to downright disturbing.

It all started innocently enough. Alice, who has a knack for drawing—she definitely didn’t get that from me—had been sketching up a storm since last Christmas. But here’s the kicker: her favorite subject was a woman who looked nothing like me.

This woman had blonde hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Now, I love my chaotic curls, but they’re as far from blonde ponytails as you can get, and none of my friends match that description either.

Fast forward to last Sunday. I picked Alice up from Darla’s and she handed me her backpack, which was bulging at the seams with new drawings. As we drove away, my curiosity got the better of me, and I finally asked, “Alice, honey, who’s this woman you’ve been drawing?”

The answer chilled me to the bone. Alice said in her sweet, innocent voice, “This is my new mommy. She lives in grandma’s house. I get cookies when I draw her!”

My heart sank. New mommy? Living at grandma’s house? And cookies for drawings? What in the world was Darla thinking? My mind raced as I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, trying to process the implications of Alice’s words.

My MIL’s eccentricities were one thing, but this was a whole new level of bizarre. The shock of Alice’s casual mention of a “new mommy” had barely settled in when I found myself frantically texting Darla, my hands almost trembling.

I snapped a photo of one of the drawings Alice had stuffed in her backpack—a blonde woman, all smiles and ponytails—and sent it off with a text that couldn’t hide my agitation: “Who is this woman, Darla?”

The reply came too quickly for comfort, a simple, “I have no idea.” The brevity of it, and the dismissive tone, just didn’t sit right with me. Nothing added up. And the more I thought about it, the more my stomach knotted.

Determined to get to the bottom of this, I did something I hadn’t done in a long time: I took a day off work. The plan was simple: drop Alice off at Darla’s and do a bit of sleuthing.

But nothing could have prepared me for what I discovered. Pulling up to Darla’s house, I felt like a detective in one of those noir films Jeff loves. However, the mystery I was unraveling was painfully personal.

I watched from the car as Darla opened the door, but it wasn’t her face that greeted us. There she was—the woman from the drawings. It knocked the wind out of me: Jeff’s ex-girlfriend, her blonde hair unmistakable even from a distance.

The pieces started falling into place, each one more unsettling than the last. Darla had often reminisced about Jeff’s past relationships, particularly this ex, praising her as if she were the one who got away.

Now, it seemed she couldn’t let go of the idea that Jeff and this woman should have been together. And here she was, hired as Alice’s nanny, infiltrating our lives under the guise of a caregiver.

As I watched them interact, it became painfully clear: Darla had been coaching Alice to call this woman “mommy.” The whole scenario reeked of manipulation, a bizarre and twisted attempt to reshape our family dynamics.

I kept my cool long enough to leave without causing a scene, but as soon as I got home, I was on the phone with my lawyer. I needed to know if there was anything legally binding I could do to keep this woman away from Alice.

The answer was a disappointing no, not enough concrete evidence for a restraining order. But then, a spark of defiance ignited in me. If Darla could play games, so could I.

I instructed Alice to draw a picture, not just any picture, but one of an old lady, deliberately scruffy and exaggerated. With the drawing in hand, I sent Darla a message I hoped would hit hard: “Sorry, Alice is getting a new grandma.”

The fallout was immediate and icy. Darla’s responses ceased, and the eerie silence that followed was telling. We haven’t seen her since that message. Now, as I sit here, recounting this whole saga, I can’t help but wonder if I went too far.

Jeff is still out of town, and I’m bracing for that conversation. It’s one thing to stand up for your family, another to sever ties so sharply. But as I tuck Alice into bed, her innocent eyes looking up at me, I’m reminded of why I took those drastic steps.

Maybe my methods were extreme, maybe they were petty, but in the end, protecting my little girl’s sense of stability and truth in our home was all that really mattered.

As for the rest, well, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what happens when Jeff gets back.

Do you think I handled things correctly, or did I go a little too far in teaching my MIL a lesson? What would you have done if you were in my shoes?

Enjoyed this story? Here’s another one you might want to check out:

I Learned a Second Language Out of Spite to Prove My Grandma Wrong

Nina’s fluency in French unlocks a family secret that threatens to shatter the fragile ties binding them. Her discovery? A long-hidden betrayal that could either rip her family apart or mend old wounds in an unexpected twist of fate.

My name is Nina, and I have a story about how spite made me a fluent French speaker. Let’s dive right in.

Growing up, I always felt like my Gran, a staunch and strictly French lady, had a soft spot for me as a kid. She’d shower me with hugs and treats whenever I visited.

But as the years passed, something shifted. The warmth faded, making those visits feel more like walking into a frosty breeze than returning to a warm home. And honestly? I didn’t really like her much either, so I guess the feeling was mutual.

Now, let me set the scene for you. Gran’s house always had this old-world charm, filled with the aroma of lavender and something always simmering on the stove.

But despite the cozy setting, Gran had this way of making me feel… less. Every time I tried speaking a little French, she’d cut me off with a scoff, “You Americans just CAN’T do it properly,” she’d say with a dismissive wave of her hand.

It stung, you know? So, I decided — if she thought I couldn’t, I’d prove I most definitely could. I signed up for French class the moment middle school gave me the option. And let me tell you, it wasn’t easy. French verbs? A nightmare. But the thought of wiping that smug look off Gran’s face? Oh, it fueled me.

Years flew by, filled with flashcards, language apps, and countless corrections on my accent. By the time high school ended, I wasn’t just scraping by; I was crafting sentences like a Parisian born and bred.

So, fast forward to last week. It was time for the family trip to Gran’s — the same old charming house, with the same lavender scent and that simmering pot.

Only this time, I had a secret weapon: my fluency in French. I hadn’t breathed a word to anyone about my linguistic arsenal, especially not Gran.

We were all gathered in the living room, a mishmash of chatter filling the air, when I caught Gran speaking in French to her sister, Darla. They were oblivious to my understanding of their words thinking they were shrouded in secrecy.