I’m Emily, and pregnancy was a whirlwind of hope and hurdles. My husband, Tom, was my anchor, always nudging me to nap and eat my veggies. But his mom, Linda, made it her mission to control everything. From our first scan, she fixated on a grandson, saying, “Our family’s all boys!” When she groaned, “A girl? I’d be lost,” I snapped, “Were you a boy?” She smirked, “Girls don’t become stars like me.” I craved calm, but Linda stormed in, redecorating our nursery teal without permission while I fought morning sickness.
She waved pungent herbs from her online “boy rituals” group, chanting for a “mighty son,” and made me massage my belly with oil every Friday at dusk. She even hid a “fertility gem” in my juice, claiming it guaranteed a male. At our 20-week ultrasound, the doctor said “boy,” and I relaxed, hoping Linda’s lectures would stop. “A future pilot!” she crowed. Tom teased, “What if he writes poetry?” Linda sputtered, appalled. I counted days, snacking on tacos at midnight, until Tom left for a two-day work trip, joking, “Hold the baby in!”
That night, contractions started. Tom was unreachable, so I called Linda, who arrived fast, saying, “I sensed it!” She criticized my hospital bag, calling friends about “our grandson.” In the car, she insisted, “Boys kick like that!” I focused on the pain, silent. At the hospital, she dubbed our baby “the legacy.” Labor was grueling, but the nurse’s words, “It’s a girl!” filled me with joy. My daughter’s face was my world. Linda burst in, horrified. “A girl?” she gasped. “The ultrasound lied?” I said, “It happens.” She muttered, “Is she Tom’s?” I clenched my jaw.
At the nursery window, Linda admired a boy, saying, “He’s like Tom!” I corrected, “That’s not ours.” She eyed my daughter, saying, “She’s… strange. Girls aren’t the same.” My baby deserved a grandmother’s love, not judgment. On discharge day, I dressed her in a blue jumpsuit with a lion hood, blue blanket, and “It’s a Boy!” balloons. Tom, back with roses, laughed, “My boy!” then saw her pink bib. “Wait, what?” I said, “Pink’s for boys too.” Linda stammered, “That’s a girl?” Tom said, “Your grandson, Mom.” I smiled, “That jawline’s family.”
In the car, I whispered to Linda, “I traded for a boy, since you prefer them.” She gasped, “You didn’t!” I grinned, “Or did I?” At home, CPS arrived, saying, “We’re checking a baby switch claim.” Tom was stunned. I showed all documents—wristband, papers, IDs—perfectly matched. The agent held my daughter, now in a yellow dress, saying, “She’s yours.” They asked about misunderstandings. I said, “Just a family jest.” Tom hid a grin, knowing Linda’s hospital behavior. Later, I told Linda, “You called CPS. She’s got Tom’s jawline. Love her, or lose her.” She stood quiet, humbled. My daughter’s worth taught me to stand firm.
