On Mother’s Day, my mother-in-law made me foot a $367 dinner bill as a “gift” to the “true moms.” I paid my part, kept my cool, and then dropped a surprise that left her stunned, reclaiming my place in the family.
I’m 35, married to Nathan for a decade, and we’ve endured painful fertility battles—treatments, losses, and silent grief I keep private. Motherhood is my greatest dream, yet it remains out of reach. Mother’s Day is always hard, but this year, my mother-in-law, Patricia, planned a “ladies’ night” with her, my sister-in-law Rachel, Rachel’s partner Emily, and me. Nathan encouraged me to attend. “It’ll be fine,” he said. I wasn’t so sure, knowing Patricia’s sharp tongue.
Patricia holds court in the family, all charm and cutting remarks, preaching that motherhood defines a woman’s worth. She dotes on Rachel’s twin girls and Emily’s new daughter, always bragging about her “Grammy” role. Me? She once said at a reunion I hadn’t “contributed” without kids. Her words sting. I usually dodge Mother’s Day, faking plans or sickness, but Patricia’s “special evening” felt unavoidable. Nathan thought she meant well. I braced for trouble.
At the restaurant, Patricia shone in her silk scarf, Rachel shared tales of her girls’ dance recital, and Emily showed newborn photos. “Happy Mother’s Day, loves!” Patricia said, handing Rachel and Emily gift bags with candles. To me, she gave a tight smile. “Nice you’re here, Laura.” No gift, no kindness. I nodded. “Thanks for the invite.” Patricia ordered champagne “for the mothers,” serving herself, Rachel, and Emily. I got water, unasked.
Rachel laughed about her twins painting the dog, and Emily shared her baby’s teething woes. Patricia recalled Nathan hiding cookies in his socks. They giggled, and I tried to join. “Kids are wild,” I said. Emily asked, “Do you babysit often?” I said, “Not much.” Patricia smirked. “Soon, maybe.” I stayed silent, my chest tight. Dessert came—three cheesecakes for them, a fruit cup for Patricia, citing her “diet.” Rachel and Emily raved, but I had no appetite for my salad.
Patricia tapped her glass, quieting us. “A quick word,” she said, eyeing me. “Laura, you’re the only one not a mom here.” The air grew heavy. “Splitting the bill evenly isn’t fair, so we’d love if you treated us tonight—for the moms.” She pushed the $367 bill my way. Three pastas, three champagnes, three desserts—I’d had a wrap and water. I swallowed hard. “Okay,” I said, then added, “I have news too.” They looked up. “Nathan and I stopped fertility treatments. We’re adopting. We got a match today—a baby girl, due in Portland tomorrow. The birth mother said we’re her home.”
No one spoke. Patricia’s smile faded. I placed $28 on the table. “That’s for me. I’m not your bank because I don’t have kids.” I stood, said, “Happy Mother’s Day,” and left. In Portland, I held our daughter, Ava, her warmth healing me. Patricia called Nathan, mad I’d “spoiled” her night. He said, “You hurt Laura.” She’s been silent since, but I’m too busy with Ava, my dream come true, to care.
