But then came Jessica—Bill’s mother. She had never approved of me, but after learning of my pregnancy, her cold disapproval turned into something far worse. Suddenly, it felt as though the baby wasn’t mine, but hers. She controlled everything—the nursery, my doctor’s appointments, even the very way I was allowed to feel about my own child.

At first, I tried to ignore it, telling myself she was just overbearing. But when she started talking about her grandchild’s future, dictating how things would be, I realized I was being pushed out of my own experience. Even Bill dismissed my concerns, insisting, “She’s just excited. Let it go.”

I wanted to believe that. I wanted to believe that our baby would bring us closer. But as I stood in the ultrasound room, clutching Bill’s hand, and heard the doctor’s words—“It’s a girl”—I saw Jessica’s face darken.

“You couldn’t even give my son a boy,” she scoffed, her voice sharp with disappointment.

Shock stole my breath. I had dreamed of this moment, of the joy of knowing our baby, and in an instant, she had turned it into something bitter.

That was when I knew—this was not just overstepping. This was control. And if I didn’t fight for my child, for myself, I would lose everything.