I’m Rachel, 35, married to Nathan for ten years, and our dream of kids has been a painful path of treatments and losses I keep private. Motherhood is my heart’s desire, but it hasn’t happened yet. This Mother’s Day, my mother-in-law, Linda, hosted a “ladies’ dinner” with her, her daughter Emily, Emily’s partner, Lisa, and me. Nathan nudged me to attend, saying, “Just smile through it.” Linda’s a traditionalist, always stressing that a woman’s legacy is her children. Her digs, like calling me “not quite there” at a family picnic, hit hard, especially since Emily has a toddler and Lisa just had twins.
I dread Mother’s Day, often skipping it with made-up plans—a work trip, a headache. But Linda’s “special night” felt unavoidable. At the restaurant, she sparkled in her silk blouse, gifting Emily and Lisa floral bags. I got a curt “Glad you came” and a shoulder tap. I sat quietly, sipping water while they shared wine, toasting “moms who matter.” Emily laughed about her daughter’s glitter mess, and Lisa showed newborn pics. I tried, “Kids are so fun,” but Linda said, “You’ll see someday.” I nodded, my chest tight, feeling like an outsider in their mom club.
Dinner was lively—Emily and Lisa savored risotto, while I ate a chicken wrap. Dessert came: three cheesecakes for them, a fruit cup for Linda, who “can’t handle sugar.” Then Linda tapped her glass, smiling too sweetly. “Rachel, since you’re not a mom, you should treat us. It’s your gift to the real mothers.” The $367 bill slid my way—lobster, wine, desserts. My wrap? Under $20. I smiled, said, “Okay,” and reached for my wallet, but paused. “I have something to share,” I said. Their eyes locked on me. “Nathan and I are adopting. We’re matched with a baby girl, born tomorrow in Portland.”
Emily’s jaw dropped, Lisa stared, and Linda’s wineglass froze mid-air. “The birth mom picked us,” I said. “She felt our love.” I faced Linda. “This is my first Mother’s Day.” I set $25 down. “This covers me. I’m not paying for your celebration.” Linda blinked, speechless; Emily fidgeted; Lisa stayed quiet. I stood, said, “Happy Mother’s Day,” and left. In Portland, holding our daughter, Ava, healed old wounds. Her name, meaning life, fit perfectly. Linda called Nathan, upset I “ruined” her day. He said, “You disrespected her.” She’s silent now, but Ava’s tiny hand in mine is my truth—I’m a mom, on my terms, and that’s enough.
