For nearly a decade, Ryan and I fought quietly through infertility, loss, and heartbreak. I rarely spoke of it—it was too raw. But Cheryl, my mother-in-law, never missed a chance to remind me I wasn’t a “real” woman. Jokes about my “unfulfilled purpose,” stiff smiles, and pointed comments became routine.
This Mother’s Day, Cheryl hosted a “ladies-only” dinner. My sisters-in-law received gifts, toasts, and warm wishes. I got a pat on the arm. Then, after dessert, Cheryl tapped her glass and declared I should pay the $367 bill since I “wasn’t a mother.” She called it my “gift” to the real moms at the table.
I’d had grilled chicken and water. But I smiled. “Of course,” I said. Then I added, “Actually—I am celebrating something. Ryan and I got matched with a baby girl this morning. She’s being born tomorrow. In Denver.”
Silence.
I looked her in the eye. “So technically, this is my first Mother’s Day.” Then I placed $25 on the table—my fair share—and stood. “Being childless doesn’t make me your wallet. Or your punchline.”
I walked out.
The next day, I held my daughter, Maya, for the first time. She was warm, tiny, perfect. Her name means “illusion.” Fitting, because I used to believe real motherhood had to be Cheryl’s version—biological, narrow, painful.
But that day, I knew the truth: I am a real mom. And no one can take that away from me.
