I always believed that having a baby would bring my husband and me closer together and make our family happy. I never imagined, however, that the biggest challenge to our relationship would come from someone else—his own mother.
Jessica, my mother-in-law, has always dominated every situation, and sadly, my husband never stood up to her. When I first learned I was pregnant, I felt like the luckiest woman alive. Bill and I had dreamed of this moment for years. Bill’s mother, Jessica, had also been eagerly awaiting the baby’s arrival, but she never liked me. From the very beginning, she made it clear that she thought I wasn’t good enough for her son, insisting, “Bill deserves someone better.”
Once I became pregnant, everything shifted. Jessica inserted herself into every detail of my pregnancy, attending every doctor’s appointment. “You need me to come with you,” she would insist, claiming, “I know what’s best.” Throughout those months, as I battled constant nausea and struggled to keep food down, Jessica showed no concern. I repeatedly asked Bill to stop sharing every detail with her and to set some boundaries, but nothing changed.
One day, during an ultrasound appointment to determine our baby’s gender, I was shocked to see Jessica waiting in the reception area. I whispered to Bill, “How did she know about this?” When the doctor revealed that we were expecting a girl—a moment I had cherished—Jessica interrupted, “You couldn’t even give my son a boy. He needed an heir.” I felt my stomach twist in anger as I retorted, “An heir to what? His video game collection? And for your information, it’s the father who determines the baby’s gender, not the mother.” She fired back, “That’s a lie. Your body is the problem. You were never right for my son.”
Later in the car, I confronted Bill. “How did she find out about the appointment?” I demanded. “I told her,” he replied calmly. “I asked you not to!” I cried. “She’s the grandmother,” he muttered. “And I’m your wife!” I countered. “I’m carrying our daughter! Don’t you care about how I feel?” Bill only mumbled, “Just ignore her,” once more.
When our daughter was born, the doctors rushed her away immediately. I pleaded weakly, “Please, give her back to me,” but a doctor shouted, “You’re losing too much blood!” The world spun, and then I blacked out. When I woke, everything felt empty and meaningless.
Before I could gather my thoughts, the door burst open and there stood Jessica, her face twisted with anger. “You didn’t even tell me you were in labor!” she snapped. Bill sighed, “It happened too fast.” “That’s no excuse!” Jessica hissed. Then, in an oddly tender tone, she cooed, “What a beautiful girl.” A nurse firmly interjected, “She needs to be fed,” but Jessica barely glanced at the baby as she ordered, “Then give her formula.” I declared with a trembling voice, “I’m going to breastfeed her.” She was mine—she meant everything to me.
Two weeks passed, yet Jessica kept intruding. One afternoon, she barged in carrying an envelope. “Proof,” she stated flatly. Bill asked, confused, “Proof of what?” “That Carol isn’t faithful,” she spat. I screamed at her, “What?! What did you do?” Overwhelmed with fear and grief, I snatched Eliza’s clothes and hastily packed her things, silent sobs wracking my body.
A few days later, my mother took us in and held me as I wept. I handed Bill an envelope and quietly explained, “This is the real DNA test.” He opened it and whispered, “99.9%.” I then told him, “Eliza is your daughter.” He pleaded, “Please… come back.” But I shook my head and stepped away, resolutely declaring, “I’m filing for divorce. I want full custody.”