Mother’s Day was never easy for me. After years of fertility treatments, miscarriages, and silent grief, I’d learned to avoid the day altogether. But this year, my mother-in-law Cheryl insisted on a “ladies-only” dinner—no husbands, just her, my two sisters-in-law, and me. Ryan, my husband, urged me to go. “She means well,” he said. I knew better.
Cheryl, the self-proclaimed matriarch, lives for tradition. Her favorite? Reminding me I haven’t “fulfilled my purpose.” She once joked at Thanksgiving that a woman’s legacy is her children—then glanced at me like I was a defective heirloom.
At dinner, the air was thick with passive-aggressive smiles and baby talk. Amanda and Holly, both mothers, basked in Cheryl’s praise. I smiled through it, swallowing the ache. Then came the check—$367. Cheryl slid it toward me with a smug grin. “You’re the only one without kids,” she said. “Consider it your gift to the real moms.”
I paid. Quietly. But I didn’t let it end there.
The next day, I sent Cheryl a handwritten note. Inside was a donation receipt—$367 to a women’s infertility support group, made in her name. I wrote: “In honor of all women whose motherhood isn’t defined by children, but by strength, compassion, and resilience. Happy Mother’s Day.”
She hasn’t spoken to me since.
