During a family dinner, my daughter slipped me a note: “Mom, pretend you’re sick and leave now.” I thought she was joking — but minutes later, I understood everything.

The dinner had started out peacefully enough — joking, music, clinking plates, everyone chatting as if nothing in the world could go wrong. I smiled along, hiding how exhausted I was after a long day at work. My daughter sat beside me, lightly poking at her food, unusually quiet.

Suddenly, I felt her fingertips brush against mine under the table. Before I could react, she pressed a folded napkin into my hand.

Trying to look casual, I opened it beneath the tablecloth. In my daughter’s small, uneven handwriting were the words:

“Mom, pretend to be sick. Leave. Now.”

For a second, I was sure my heart stopped. I looked at her — she sat stiffly, her face pale, her lips trembling. There was nothing playful in her eyes.

And something inside me, deep and instinctive, said: Do what she says.

I raised a hand to my forehead, let my voice wobble a little, and whispered:

“Sorry… I’m not feeling well… I think I need some air.”

My mother-in-law raised her eyebrows. My husband looked confused. But I excused myself, stood slowly, and walked toward the hallway, feeling their eyes follow me.

Once out of the dining room, I leaned against the wall, trying to steady my breathing. I waited for my daughter, my mind racing with fear and questions.

After what felt like forever, the door creaked open. My daughter rushed out, near tears, and grabbed my hand.

What she whispered next sent chills through my entire body.

“Mom… don’t go back in there. I heard Grandma saying things on the phone. She doesn’t want you to have the baby…”

My stomach tightened.

“What do you mean?” I asked, barely able to speak.

“She said it would be ‘better’ if the baby wasn’t born. She said you having a girl is pointless. I saw her doing something with your drink when you were talking to Dad…” My daughter’s voice broke. “She didn’t know I was watching.”

The hallway blurred around me.

“You’re sure?” I whispered.

My daughter nodded, tears spilling.

“She said, ‘We don’t need another girl.’ And she said it would be easier if… if you didn’t have the baby.”

My knees nearly gave out. I felt the wall behind me just to stay upright.

And then — footsteps.

My mother-in-law appeared at the end of the hallway.

Her expression was gentle. Too gentle.

“Well,” she said, voice soft as honey, “are you feeling any better? Should I bring you something to drink?”

My daughter clutched my hand so tightly I could feel her shaking.

“Mom,” she whispered, barely audible, “please… don’t take anything she gives you.”