My husband was supposed to stand by me, but my parents made sure he didn’t. When I couldn’t give him a child, they turned him against me and pushed him to leave. I lost everything—my family, my marriage, my home. When they saw me again, they expected misery. Instead, they were the ones in shock.
My parents always wanted a boy. When I was born, they weren’t happy—they were disappointed.
No matter what I did, it was never enough. They expected perfection, as if I had to prove I was worthy of their love.
When I finally moved out, I thought things would change. But even from a distance, I felt the weight of their expectations. I kept trying to win their approval, knowing deep down I never would.
Then I met Jordan. My parents adored him instantly. He was everything they wanted in a child—except he wasn’t theirs. Somehow, they loved him more than they ever loved me.
From the moment we got married, Jordan dreamed of having a child. He would talk about names, imagine what our baby would look like. At first, I was excited too. But after a year of trying with no success, my excitement turned into frustration and fear.
“Let’s get checked,” Jordan suggested one night.
I hesitated. “What if they tell us something bad? I don’t want to hear that.”
Jordan pulled me close. “No matter what, we have each other. That’s what matters.”
We took the tests. We met with doctors. I tried to stay hopeful, but dread followed me like a shadow.
When we sat in the doctor’s office, I gripped the armrests of my chair, my heart pounding in my ears. The doctor sighed as he looked at my chart.
“Your test results show diminished ovarian reserve,” he said gently. “It means conceiving naturally will be extremely difficult.”
The world stopped. I stared at him, unable to breathe. My hands went cold.
“But we can consider IVF,” he added. “It might take multiple cycles, but it’s one path we can explore.”
I nodded, but my mind barely processed his words. I needed to get out of there.
When I got home, Jordan was in the living room, smiling. “I went to the doctor today,” he said, his eyes bright. “I’m completely healthy!”
Something inside me snapped. Tears welled up, burning my eyes. My body shook.
Jordan’s face fell. He rushed toward me. “Mila, what’s wrong?”
I covered my face. “The doctor… he said I won’t be able to conceive naturally.” My voice cracked.
Jordan went still. His grip on me loosened. Then I heard him sniff.
He was crying too. We stood there in silence. When our tears dried, we sat down at the kitchen table.
“So… what do we do now?” Jordan asked.
“The doctor suggested IVF,” I said. “But it’s expensive. And it doesn’t always work.”
Jordan exhaled and nodded. “Then we’ll save up. We’ll try.”
I wanted to believe him. But days later, my phone rang. It was my mother.
“Are you infertile?!” she screamed.
I froze. “What? How do you even know?”
“Jordan told us. How could you?!” she spat. “You are a disgrace!”
My throat burned. “I can’t control this.”
“It would’ve been better if you were born a boy!” she shrieked. “You can’t even be a proper woman!”
Tears blurred my vision. “So I’m not a woman if I can’t have a child?”
“You’re a joke,” she snapped.
Something inside me broke. “You know what? I’m done! I don’t want you or Dad in my life anymore!”
Silence. Then she let out a bitter laugh. “Good. Now I won’t have to be embarrassed by you anymore.”
The call ended. I dropped my phone and sobbed.
That night, I confronted Jordan. “Why did you tell my parents?”
He sighed. “They asked. What was I supposed to do? Lie?”
“You didn’t have to say anything!” I snapped.
“They’re your parents. They had a right to know,” he argued.
“Not anymore,” I said coldly.
From that day on, Jordan changed. He stopped looking at me the same way. He distanced himself. He spent money carelessly, as if proving something.
Then one night, he threw divorce papers in front of me.
“I want a divorce,” he said.
My hands trembled. “Why? We can still try for IVF.”
“It’s not just about that,” he said. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
The day of our divorce, my parents were there.
“We’re here for Jordan,” my father said.
I signed the papers. Then I packed my bags and left.
I started over. I focused on healing. But one thing never changed. I still wanted to be a mother.
With IVF and an anonymous donor, I finally had my daughter. My Hope. She wasn’t a reminder of pain. She was my reason to keep going.
One afternoon, while out for a walk, I saw them. My parents. Jordan.
My mother’s eyes narrowed at the stroller. “Who is this?”
“My daughter,” I said firmly.
Jordan’s jaw dropped. “Daughter?”
“Yes,” I said.
My mother cleared her throat. “Why don’t you invite us over? We can get to know our granddaughter.”
Jordan brightened. “Yes! We can start over.”
I laughed dryly. “Oh? Because you can’t find anyone else?”
My father stepped forward. “So? Will you invite us over?”
I gripped the stroller. “You don’t deserve to meet her.”
My mother scoffed. “Oh, come on. Are you still mad?”
I met her gaze. “I’d rather let a pack of wild dogs into my home than you.”
And with that, I walked away. I didn’t need them. I had Hope.
