My husband was supposed to stand by me, but my parents made sure he didn’t. When I couldn’t give him a child, they turned him against me and pushed him to leave. I lost everything—my family, my marriage, my home. When they saw me again, they expected misery. Instead, they were the ones in shock.
My parents always wanted a boy. When I was born, there was no joy in their eyes, no celebration—just disappointment.
Growing up, nothing I did was ever enough. I got good grades, I excelled in everything I put my mind to, but it didn’t matter. They acted like I needed to earn my place in their world, like I had to prove I was worth something.
When I finally moved out, I thought I’d be free. But their words still followed me, lingering like shadows, whispering that I needed to be better, that I had to work harder to gain their approval—approval I knew I would never get.
Then I met Jordan. My parents adored him from the start. He was everything they had ever wanted in a child—except he wasn’t their child. And somehow, they loved him more than they ever loved me.
From the moment we got married, Jordan dreamed of having a child. He talked about names, about teaching our son or daughter to ride a bike, about bedtime stories and family vacations.
At first, I shared his excitement. But when months passed with no pregnancy, my hope started to fade. After a year, I wanted to stop trying.
“Let’s get checked,” Jordan said one evening, his voice gentle.
I hesitated. “I don’t know. What if we find out something is wrong? I don’t want bad news.”
Jordan pulled me into a hug. “No matter what, we have each other. That’s what matters.”
We took the tests. We met with doctors. I tried to hold on to hope, but the fear gnawed at me.
Days later, I sat in the doctor’s office, my hands gripping the armrests. My heart pounded.
The doctor sighed and looked at my chart. “Your test results show diminished ovarian reserve,” he said gently. “It means conceiving naturally will be extremely difficult.”
The world stopped. I stared at him, unable to breathe. My hands went cold.
“But we can consider IVF,” he added. “It might take multiple cycles, but it’s an option.”
I nodded, barely hearing him. I needed to get out of there.
When I got home, I found Jordan in the living room, smiling. “I went to the doctor today,” he said, his eyes bright. “I’m completely healthy!”
Something snapped inside me. Tears welled up in my eyes. My body shook.
Jordan’s face fell. “Mila, what’s wrong?” He stepped toward me.
I covered my face. “The doctor said I won’t be able to conceive naturally.” My voice cracked.
Jordan went still. I heard him sniff. He was crying too. For a while, we just stood there in silence.
Later, we sat at the kitchen table.
“So… what do we do now?” Jordan asked quietly.
“The doctor suggested IVF,” I said. “But it’s expensive. And it doesn’t always work on the first try.”
Jordan exhaled. He wiped his face and straightened his shoulders. “Then we’ll save up. We’ll try.”
I wanted to believe him. But days passed, and something changed. Then my phone rang. It was my mother.
“Are you infertile?!” she screamed.
My stomach twisted. “What? How do you even know?”
“Jordan told us. How could you?!” she spat. “You are a disgrace!”
My throat burned. “I can’t control this.”
“You can’t even be a proper woman!” she shrieked. “You should have been born a boy!”
Tears streamed down my face. “The doctor said we can have a baby through IVF.”
“A test-tube baby?! That’s disgusting!”
Something inside me snapped. “I’m done! I don’t want you or Dad in my life anymore!”
Silence. Then a bitter laugh. “Good. Now I won’t have to be embarrassed by you anymore.”
The line went dead.
When Jordan walked in, I confronted him. “Why did you tell them?”
Jordan sighed. “They asked. What was I supposed to do? Lie?”
“You didn’t have to say anything!”
“Mila, stop being dramatic. Your husband can’t have a child because of you.”
I stared at him. “I’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.”
“Whatever,” he muttered.
Days turned into weeks. Jordan distanced himself. Then one evening, he came home and threw divorce papers onto the table.
“I want a divorce.”
I stared at the papers, my hands frozen. “Why?”
Jordan didn’t look at me. “I’ve already made my decision.”
At the divorce proceedings, my parents were there—for Jordan.
“You’re doing the right thing,” my mother told him. “She doesn’t deserve you.”
I signed the papers. I left. I moved far away.
I focused on my future. I started IVF with an anonymous donor. The first attempt failed. The second worked.
Months later, I held my daughter in my arms. My Hope.
Then, one afternoon, I saw them—my parents and Jordan.
Their steps slowed. Their faces twisted in shock.
My mother pointed at the stroller. “Who is this?”
“My daughter,” I said.
Jordan’s head jerked back. “Daughter?”
My mother cleared her throat. “Why don’t you invite us over? We can get to know our granddaughter.”
Jordan nodded. “Yeah. Maybe we can try again.”
I let out a dry laugh. “Now that you see I have a child, you want to come back?”
My father stepped forward. “So? Will you let us meet her?”
I tightened my grip on the stroller. “You don’t deserve to meet her.”
My mother scoffed. “Are you still mad?”
I met her gaze. “I’d rather let wild dogs into my home than you.”
I turned and walked away. I didn’t need them.
I had Hope.
