From the start, my mother-in-law, Sheila, treated my pregnancy like it was her personal project. She painted the nursery blue without asking, waved bundles of herbs to “guarantee a boy,” and offered constant, unsolicited advice. So when I gave birth to a girl and saw the shock on her face, I couldn’t help but smile—because I was ready for that moment.
Pregnancy felt like a marathon, with everyone around me—my doctor, Sheila—trying to set the pace. Still, my heart was full of joy.
Jake, my husband, was endlessly gentle and reassuring.
“Don’t stress, sweetheart. Get some rest. Have some broccoli,” he’d say, his voice calm and kind.
But Sheila? From our very first ultrasound, she was more anxious than excited. Not about the baby’s health, but about something closer to her own heart.
“If it’s a girl, I don’t know how I’ll cope…” she murmured, a worried crease in her brow.
“Cope with what?” I asked, though I already knew where this was going.
“Our family’s all boys! I had three brothers, my husband had two. Jake’s the first grandson! A girl would be so… out of place,” she said, her voice trailing into disappointment.
“Were you hoping to be a boy yourself?” I mumbled under my breath one day.
She laughed, flipping her hair. “Oh, darling, very few girls turn out as fabulous as I did.”
I longed for just one peaceful day—just one.
Calling Sheila “involved” barely scratched the surface. She took over the nursery, painting it blue while I battled morning sickness on the couch. She lit strange herbs from some fertility group she followed online, chanting softly as she wandered through our home.
“Strong seed, strong son!”
She insisted I rub oil on my belly every Thursday at 3 p.m., always clockwise. One time, she even snuck a so-called fertility crystal into my smoothie. And this was all before I even reached the third trimester.
At the 20-week scan, we were told it was a boy. Relief washed over me—finally, Sheila might ease up.
“I knew it!” she squealed, beaming. “He’s going to be a little athlete—I can already see him swinging a baseball bat!”
Jake leaned in and whispered with a sly grin, “What if he wants to do ballet?”
Sheila choked on her sparkling water, stunned. After that, things quieted down—for a while. I marked off the days, slept like a pregnant queen with a pillow between my knees, and craved pineapple pizza in the middle of the night.
A week before my due date, Jake gave me a long hug and a worried smile.
“Honey, I’ll only be gone for two days—just two. Promise me you’ll wait to have the baby till I’m back.”
I laughed, trying to hide a flicker of anxiety. “Sure, I’ll just clench until you return.”
But deep down, I had a feeling. And sure enough, the next night, the contractions began.
Jake didn’t answer his phone. Of course.
I called Sheila. She was at my door within twenty minutes.
“I knew this was the day! Your belly looked different yesterday—I could tell,” she said, her voice full of certainty.
And that’s when things got interesting…