I was 33, heavily pregnant with my fourth child, and still living under my in-laws’ roof when my mother-in-law looked me straight in the face and made it brutally clear what she thought I was worth.

We were supposedly living with his parents to save for a house. That was the story Derek liked to tell people. It sounded practical, even responsible. But the truth was uglier. Derek loved being back in the role of the cherished son. His mother cooked his meals, his father covered most of the bills, and I became little more than unpaid labor in a house where I had no real place.

We already had three daughters. Mason was eight, Lily was five, and Harper was three. They were bright, loving, funny little girls who filled every part of my life with meaning.Some women just aren’t built for sons,” she told me. “Maybe it’s your side.”

By the third, she didn’t even bother pretending to be polite. She’d pat my daughters on the head and murmur, “Three girls. Bless her heart,” the same way people talk about a house fire or a tragic diagnosis.
And Derek? Derek never flinched. Not once.

Then I got pregnant again.

Patricia started calling the baby “the heir” when I was barely six weeks along. She sent Derek links to blue nursery themes, old wives’ tales about conceiving boys, and articles written as if my body had a duty to produce the correct result this time. Sometimes she’d glance at me across the kitchen and say, “If you can’t give Derek what he needs, maybe you should step aside for a woman who can.”