On Mother’s Day, my mother-in-law handed me the check for a $367 dinner and called it my “gift” to the “real moms” at the table. I smiled through gritted teeth, paid my share—and then I gave her a surprise she’ll never forget.
I never imagined I’d be the person spilling family drama online, but here we are. I’m 35, married to Ryan for almost ten years. We’ve been through more fertility treatments, miscarriages, and heartbreaking phone calls than I can count. I don’t even talk about it with most people anymore—it hurts too much.
Being a mom is the one thing I’ve always wanted more than anything in this life. And it just… hasn’t happened.
This past Sunday, on Mother’s Day, my MIL, Cheryl, decided to host a “ladies-only” dinner. It was supposed to be just her, my sister-in-law Amanda, my other SIL Holly, and me. Ryan said I should go. “Just smile and get through it,” he told me. “You know how she is.”
I knew exactly how she was.
I should’ve trusted my gut.
Let me back up a bit.
Cheryl is the queen of our family. Think pearls, casserole dishes, and a smile so passive-aggressive it feels like being a roach under a wine glass. She loves “tradition,” and her favorite one is reminding everyone that motherhood is the most important thing a woman can do. She says things like, “A woman’s greatest legacy is her children,” and she means it. Every single time.
She has three kids. Amanda, the golden daughter, has two boys. She posts about them non-stop, showing off their milestones like it’s a competition. Derek, the youngest, married Holly. They just had their second daughter three months ago.
Cheryl is obsessed with both of those babies. She’s always holding one, posting photos, and proudly calling herself “Grammy of Four.”
Then there’s me. The one who still hasn’t “fulfilled her purpose,” as Cheryl once put it over Thanksgiving dinner. She said it with a laugh, but it stuck with me like a splinter in my chest.
Mother’s Day is usually a nightmare for me. I find some excuse to skip it—last year, I lied and said I was meeting friends for brunch. The year before, I had a “cold.” Ryan runs interference, and everyone pretends not to notice. But this year, Cheryl got clever.
“No husbands,” she said. “Just us girls. A special night.”
Ryan pushed me to go.
“She means well,” he said.
“No, she really doesn’t,” I replied, but I went anyway.
When I walked into the restaurant, I immediately knew something was off.
Cheryl was dressed in her good pearls, wearing that smug smile of hers. Amanda was already there, laughing about how her youngest had smeared peanut butter all over the wall that morning. Holly walked in right after me, bouncing in with a giant diaper bag and baby photos on her phone.
“Happy Mother’s Day, my darlings!” Cheryl beamed as she handed out gift bags to Amanda and Holly.
She turned to me.
“Good of you to make it, dear,” she said, patting my arm. That was it. No gift bag. No “Happy Mother’s Day.” Just that stiff little pat like I was the neighbor’s awkward niece tagging along.
I forced a smile. “Thanks for the invite.”
We sat down, and Cheryl ordered a bottle of prosecco “for the mothers.” She poured three glasses, and I was given water. She didn’t ask what I wanted.
Amanda leaned over to me. “You wouldn’t believe what Brayden did this morning,” she said, her voice full of amusement.
“Oh no,” Holly laughed, “What now?”
“He flushed my earrings down the toilet. The nice ones! From Jared!” Amanda exclaimed, rolling her eyes.
They both burst out laughing.
I tried to chuckle along, but I couldn’t think of anything to add.
Cheryl jumped in. “Boys will be boys. Mine once shoved a Hot Wheels car up his nose. Remember that, Amanda?”
“Oh God, yes!” Amanda said. “Ryan cried so hard. You had to take him to urgent care!”
Everyone laughed, but I just sat there, holding my glass and trying to join in.
“That sounds wild,” I said. “Kids do the strangest things.”
Holly looked at me politely. “Do you babysit much?”
“No,” I said. “Not lately.”
Cheryl leaned in, her voice dripping with that fake sweetness. “Well, hopefully someday soon, dear.”
I nodded, staying silent.
The waiter returned with dessert: three chocolate lava cakes and a plain fruit bowl for Cheryl, which he set in front of her.
“For you, ma’am,” he said.
Cheryl gave a polite nod. “Too rich for my digestion,” she told us, as though the rest of us didn’t already know that. “But the rest of you enjoy.”
Amanda dove into her cake right away, moaning with pleasure. “Oh my God, this is amazing.”
Holly grinned, already halfway through hers. “Worth every calorie.”
I just smiled and pushed a slice of strawberry around my plate. The sweetness was almost too much. I didn’t really have an appetite.
Then Cheryl tapped her spoon against her water glass a few times, the sharp clinks making everyone freeze. She stood up and said, “Ladies, before we part ways tonight, I have a little something to share.”
Amanda perked up. “Oh! Is it about the cabin next month?”
Cheryl waved her off. “No, no. This is more… practical.”
Her eyes turned to me, and I could already tell whatever was coming wasn’t going to be good.
“Kaylee, dear,” she began with a tone so sweet it made my skin crawl, “you’re the only one at this table who isn’t a mother.”
The entire table went quiet.
“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way,” she continued, her voice syrupy, “but it doesn’t seem fair to split the bill evenly.”
Amanda looked down at her lap, and Holly grabbed her wineglass, not saying a word.
Cheryl continued, calm as ever. “So we thought — since you’re not really celebrating anything — maybe you’d be kind enough to treat us this year.”
She slid the little black folder with the check across the table toward me, as though she was doing me a favor.
I opened it. The total was $367. Three lobster tails. Three glasses of prosecco. Three desserts. I had grilled chicken and water. My throat tightened, but I forced myself to smile.
“Of course,” I said quietly, reaching for my purse. “You’re right.”
Cheryl nodded like it was all settled. Amanda didn’t look up. Holly kept sipping her wine.
I let a few seconds pass before I spoke again. “Actually,” I said, setting the check aside, “I’ve got something to share too.”
All three women turned to me. Amanda’s face was surprised, Holly’s curious, and Cheryl’s—well, Cheryl’s was the same patronizing expression she always wore when she thought I was being dramatic.
I took a steady breath. “Ryan and I have decided to stop trying.”
Amanda blinked. Holly tilted her head. Cheryl opened her mouth, already getting ready to say something.
“Well,” she said a little too fast, “that’s probably for the best, dear. Some women just—”
“We’re adopting,” I said, cutting her off.
The shift was immediate. Amanda’s eyes went wide. Holly’s hand froze mid-air. Cheryl just sat there, frozen with her wineglass in hand.
“We got the call this morning,” I continued, letting each word sink in. “We’ve been matched. A baby girl. She’s being born tomorrow. In Denver.”
I could feel my voice wobbling, but I didn’t let it break.
“The birth mother read our profile,” I said. “She saw our pictures. She told the agency we felt like home. Those were her words.”
Cheryl didn’t speak. Neither did anyone else.
I looked directly at Cheryl. “So technically,” I said, “this is my first Mother’s Day.”
Nobody moved.
I reached into my purse and pulled out a 20 and a 5. I placed the bills gently on the table.
“Here’s $25,” I said. “That more than covers what I had.”
I turned to Cheryl. “I’m not paying for the rest. Being childless doesn’t make me your wallet. Or your punchline.”
Cheryl’s mouth opened, then closed. Amanda looked stunned. Holly was silent, just watching me.
I stood up, pulled on my coat, and took one last look around the table.
“Happy Mother’s Day,” I said, and I walked out.
The next morning, we flew to Denver.
When the nurse placed Maya in my arms, something inside me cracked open. She was tiny, pink, and warm against my chest. She yawned once and curled her tiny fist around my finger like she’d always belonged there.
Her name means “illusion.” We didn’t choose it—her birth mother did—but it felt perfect. For years, I chased the illusion that motherhood had to come one specific way: through biology. Through pain. Through Cheryl’s definition of what a “real” mom was.
But now, holding Maya, all that noise fell away.
Cheryl didn’t call me after the dinner. Instead, she called Ryan—left him three voicemails. She said I embarrassed her, that I “made a scene” on her holiday.
Ryan finally called her back. I overheard him from the hallway.
“You embarrassed yourself,” he said. “Kaylee doesn’t owe you anything.”
She hasn’t called since. And honestly, that’s fine.
Because now, for the first time in a decade, I don’t feel like I’m missing something. I don’t feel like the outsider. I’m not playing anyone’s game anymore.
I’m Maya’s mom. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.