My 12-year-old son, Cody, loves baking. Our house often smells of cinnamon and vanilla, and his joy reminds me of his late mother, who used to say baking was another form of love. He’d even started selling cookies to neighbors, glowing with pride at every compliment.
But my mother, Elizabeth, who was staying with us, didn’t approve. She called baking “girl stuff” and insisted real boys should be playing sports, not standing in a kitchen. Despite my warnings, she wouldn’t stop criticizing him.
Then one afternoon, I came home to find Cody in tears. While he was at a friend’s house, my mother had thrown away all his baking supplies — tools he’d saved for over two years to buy.
Her reason?
“He needs a real hobby.”
I was furious. When I confronted her, she stood by her decision, claiming she was saving him from embarrassment. I told her to replace every single item she’d destroyed. When she refused, I told her to leave.
No one — not even my own mother — gets to crush my child’s spirit.
That night, I sat with Cody and reminded him that his passion is valid, creative, and something to be proud of. His sister Casey stood beside him, telling him how much we admire his talent.
The next day, we went shopping together and replaced everything. Watching him carefully choose new spatulas and cookie cutters, seeing that smile return to his face, confirmed I had made the right choice.
Because real love doesn’t shame a child for who they are.
Real love protects their light.
Always.