I was 33, pregnant with my fourth child, living in my in-laws’ house, when my MIL looked me dead in the eye and said that if this baby wasn’t a boy, she’d throw me and my three daughters out. My husband just smirked and asked, “So when are you leaving?”
I’m 33F, American, and I was pregnant with my fourth when my MIL basically told me I was a defective baby machine. We were living with my husband’s parents “to save for a house.” That was the official story.
Reality? Derek liked being the golden boy again. His mom cooked, his dad paid most of the bills, and I was the live-in nanny who didn’t own a single wall.
We had three daughters already. Mason was eight, Lily was five, and Harper was three. They were my whole world.
To my MIL, Patricia, they were three failures. When I was pregnant with Mason, she’d said, “Let’s hope you don’t ruin this family line, honey.”
When Mason was born, she sighed and said, “Well, next time.”
Baby #2? “Some women just aren’t built for sons,” she said.
“Maybe it’s your side.”
By baby #3, she didn’t bother sugarcoating. She’d pat their heads and say, “Three girls. Bless her heart,” like I was a tragic news story.
Then I got pregnant again. Fourth time. Patricia started calling this baby “the heir” at six weeks.
She sent Derek links for boy nursery themes and “how to conceive a son” like it was a performance review. Then she’d look at me and say, “If you can’t give Derek what he needs, maybe you should move aside for a woman who can.”
Derek didn’t flinch. He took it as his cue.
At dinner, he’d joke, “Fourth time’s the charm. Don’t screw this one up.”
I said, “They’re our kids, not a science experiment.”
He rolled his eyes. “Relax.
You’re so emotional. This house is a hormone bomb.”
Later, in our room, I asked him straight. “Can you tell your mom to stop?” I said.
“She talks like our daughters are mistakes. They hear her.”
He shrugged. “She just wants a grandson.
Every man needs a son. That’s reality.”
“And what if this one’s a girl?” I asked. He smirked.
“Then we’ve got a problem, don’t we?”
It felt like a bucket of ice water. Patricia ramped up in front of the kids. “Girls are cute,” she’d say, loud enough for the whole house.
“But they don’t carry the name. Boys build the family.”
One night, Mason whispered, “Mom, is Daddy mad we’re not boys?”
I swallowed my own anger. “Daddy loves you,” I said.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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