“Don’t come to Jake’s game. Only parents are allowed. League rules.”
That’s what my daughter-in-law, Jenna, said as she stood on my porch, arms crossed, her tone final.
It hit me like a slap.
Jake is my *everything*. After I lost my husband five years ago, that little boy became my light. We spent countless afternoons in the backyard — me tossing softballs underhand, him swinging with all his might. I cheered for every hit like it was the World Series. I was there when he first connected the bat to the ball. I was the one who wiped his tears when he scraped his knees. And now… now he was finally playing in his first *real* game.
But I didn’t argue. I didn’t push. I *trusted* her. I thought maybe it really was just a strict league policy.
So that morning, I made Jake his favorite pancakes. I kissed his forehead and whispered, “Go get ’em, baby.”
Then I stayed home. Alone. Imagining his big moment. Hoping someone would take a picture. Hoping he’d feel me cheering, even from miles away.
And then my phone buzzed.
**One message. One picture. One heartbreak.**
A neighbor had been at the game — her grandson was on the opposing team.
She texted:
> *“Your grandson played his heart out today! So proud! But hey — what happened? Why were your DIL’s parents there, and NOT YOU? I thought you were his biggest fan! ANYTHING WRONG?”*
My hands shook as I opened the image.
There he was — my little Jake. Holding a trophy half his size, grinning so wide it made my chest ache. And there beside him… Jenna’s parents. Wearing matching team hats. Holding a giant Lego box. Posing for pictures. Right there on the field.
Not “only parents allowed.” Just *only the ones she picked.*
My heart didn’t break. It **plummeted**. That dizzying, hollow feeling — like when an elevator drops too fast.
I cried. Not just tears — the kind of sobs you can’t hold back, even when you’re trying to breathe.
And then, foolishly, I called my son.
“Ethan,” I whispered, barely holding it together. “Why? Why wasn’t I allowed to come to Jake’s game? Jenna told me I couldn’t—said it was league rules—but her parents were there!”
There was a long pause. Then a sigh. A cold one. Heavy. Like he’d been waiting for this.
“Mom…” he said, “You were left out *on purpose.* You should know the reason.”
My breath caught.
He continued, voice tight. “Jenna doesn’t feel comfortable around you. She says you make her feel judged, like you’re always silently criticizing everything she does as a mom. She said you give Jake too much sugar. That you call too often. That you’re… overbearing.”
“I… I was just trying to help,” I whispered.
“She doesn’t want Jake to be too attached,” Ethan said flatly. “We’re trying to set boundaries. And we think it’s better if you… take a step back.”
**A step back?**
From *my grandson?*
The boy who still draws me crayon cards and calls me “Nana Banana?”
I hung up without another word. Because anything I said would’ve come out as a scream — of heartbreak, betrayal, grief.
Later that night, I found one of Jake’s old drawings. Us in the backyard. Me pitching, him hitting. He’d drawn a crown on my head and labeled me *“Queen of Baseball.”*
But even queens get exiled, I guess.
I don’t know what’s next. Maybe I’ll write Jake a letter. Maybe I’ll sit on the porch, hoping he rides his bike by.
But one thing’s for sure:
I may be sidelined now…
But I will *never* stop rooting for that boy.