My mother-in-law CUT OFF my daughter’s CURLY HAIR to make her “MATCH BETTER”

She explained that most people who show this level of favoritism never reached the point of naming it as abuse or acknowledging harm without centering their own feelings. The therapist said “we could consider a very brief supervised visit in a neutral location if we felt ready,” emphasizing the “if” and the supervised and the brief.

Tom and I talked about it in the car on the way home, both of us feeling torn between protecting Zoe and wondering if Ruth had actually done enough work to deserve a chance. I said I wanted to wait another month to see if Ruth maintained this new awareness or if it was just temporary guilt.

Tom agreed immediately. He said “his mother had a pattern of seeming to understand something and then reverting to old behavior when the pressure was off.”

We told Camila our decision. She said “she’d let Ruth know” and added “that Ruth had expected us to need more time and hadn’t pushed for immediate contact.”

Six months after Ruth cut Zoe’s hair, we finally agreed to a 30-minute supervised meeting at a public park with the understanding that we’d leave immediately if anything felt wrong. Tom called his sister and brother to arrange it.

He asked them “to bring Olivia and Chloe so Ruth would have to demonstrate treating all three girls equally right from the start.”

Camila said she’d been waiting for us to be ready for this and had already talked to Ruth about appropriate behavior. The morning of the meeting, I dressed Zoe in her favorite purple shirt and put a clip in her growing curls, wanting her to feel pretty and confident.

Tom kept checking his watch during the drive to the park, clearly nervous about seeing his mother for the first time in half a year. We arrived early and sat on a bench where we could see the parking lot, watching for Ruth’s car.

She pulled in exactly on time with Camila’s van right behind her. I felt my whole body tense watching Ruth get out and walk toward the playground.

Ruth looked older than I remembered, her hair grayer and her movements more careful. She’d brought a small bag with her that turned out to hold three identical stuffed animals, cheap ones from the grocery store, but exactly the same.

When the girls ran up, Ruth knelt down to their level instead of just bending over, and she spoke to all three of them before singling anyone out. She told Zoe “her curls looked beautiful” and asked “about her favorite color” without mentioning Olivia or Chloe’s hair at all.

Zoe hung back at first, standing half behind my leg while Ruth talked, clearly remembering that Grandma had hurt her even if she couldn’t fully articulate how. Ruth didn’t push or try to force affection.

She just kept her voice gentle and asked Zoe about her toys at home. When Zoe mentioned her stuffed elephant, Ruth asked “what the elephant’s name was” and actually listened to the answer instead of redirecting attention to the other girls.

She gave each girl their identical stuffed animal at the same time, not making a big production out of any one gift. Olivia asked “why hers wasn’t bigger since she was the oldest” and Ruth gently said “all the cousins were equally special and deserved equal gifts.”

The whole interaction felt stiff and awkward, like Ruth was consciously monitoring every word and action, but she was genuinely trying. After exactly 30 minutes, Tom stood up and said “it was time for us to go.”

Ruth nodded and told Zoe “she hoped to see her again soon” then stepped back without trying to hug her or push for more contact. Zoe waved goodbye but didn’t move toward her grandmother, and I took that as a healthy boundary my daughter was setting for herself.

We scheduled visits every other week at first, keeping them to an hour at Ruth’s house with Tom and me present the whole time. Ruth would greet all three girls at the door with the same enthusiasm, bending down to their level and asking about their weeks without singling anyone out.

I watched her face during those early visits. I saw the way she had to pause before speaking, like she was running through a mental checklist of how to treat them equally.

She’d catch herself reaching for Olivia’s hair and pull her hand back. Then she would make a point of complimenting Zoe’s outfit or asking about her toys.

The effort was visible in every interaction, this conscious work of fighting against instincts she’d spent years building. Zoe stayed close to me during the first few visits, playing with her toys but keeping one eye on her grandmother.

She’d answer Ruth’s questions but didn’t volunteer information or run to show her things like she used to when she was younger. The easy trust was gone, replaced by this careful distance that broke my heart even though I knew it was healthy.

By the second month, Zoe would sit near Ruth during visits and accept the snack she offered, but she never climbed into her lap or asked for hugs. Ruth noticed this shift, and I could see the pain in her eyes when Zoe chose to sit between me and Tom instead of next to her grandmother.

But she didn’t push or try to force affection. Tom talked to his sister every few weeks, getting updates on how the new family dynamic was affecting everyone.

Camila called one afternoon while I was making dinner and asked if she could stop by to talk. She arrived with coffee and sat at my kitchen table looking tired but lighter somehow, like she’d put down something heavy she’d been carrying.

She told me that Olivia had thrown a tantrum last month when Ruth gave her the same birthday present as Chloe, a regular art set instead of the elaborate craft station she’d gotten the year before. Camila had let her cry it out.

She explained “that grandma was learning to treat all her granddaughters the same and that Olivia wasn’t more special than her cousins just because she was older.”

The conversation had been hard, but Olivia seemed to understand. Over the past few weeks, she’d started asking to play with Zoe and Chloe more instead of expecting them to watch her have special experiences.

Camila said Olivia had even shared her favorite doll with Chloe last week without being asked, something she never would have done before when she saw herself as Ruth’s chosen one. The shift was hard for Olivia in some ways, losing that special status she’d grown used to.

But Camila could see her daughter developing real empathy instead of the entitled attitude that had been growing. She said all three girls seemed more relaxed at family gatherings now, playing together instead of Olivia performing for Ruth while the others watched.

Eight months after Ruth cut Zoe’s hair, I sat in the therapist’s office for our regular check-in without Zoe present. The therapist pulled out her notes and told me that Zoe had made excellent progress in processing the rejection and rebuilding her self-image.

She was confident, happy, and secure in our family’s love for her. But then the therapist’s expression shifted and she said something that made my chest tight.

She explained “that while Zoe was doing well now she’d likely always carry some memory of this period even if the details got fuzzy as she grew older.”

The experience of being treated as less valuable than her cousins during such important developmental years might surface again as she got older. She noted it might affect how she viewed family relationships and her place in them.

The therapist recommended continuing therapy periodically as Zoe developed, checking in at different stages to help her process the experience through new lenses as her understanding deepened. I posted an update on the Grandmas Who Play Favorites account that evening.

I shared resources about childhood favoritism and its long-term effects. The account had become something bigger than just my story, a place where people dealing with similar situations could find support and validation.

I kept it active with occasional posts about our ongoing journey, the small victories, and continuing challenges of rebuilding family relationships after such deep damage. Zoe’s curls had grown back full and thick, bouncing around her shoulders when she ran.

Every time I saw them, I felt this fierce pride mixed with lingering anger at what Ruth had tried to take from her. Our family would never be the same as it was before, that easy trust and assumed love replaced by careful boundaries and supervised contact.

But my daughter knew without any doubt that her parents would always protect her. She knew that she was valued exactly as she was, and that her beautiful curls were hers alone.