On Mother’s Day, my mother-in-law (MIL), Cheryl, handed me a check for $367 to pay for a fancy dinner and said, “This is your gift to the real moms at the table.” I smiled, paid my part, and then, to her shock, I gave her the surprise of a lifetime.
I never imagined I’d be sharing family drama online, but here we are. I’m 35 years old, married to my husband, Ryan, for almost 10 years. Together, we’ve faced countless fertility treatments, heartbreaking miscarriages, and phone calls that shattered us. I don’t talk about it with most people anymore—it hurts too much.
Being a mother is all I’ve ever wanted. But, so far, it just hasn’t happened.
This past Sunday was Mother’s Day. Cheryl decided to host a “ladies-only” dinner—just her, my sister-in-law Amanda, my other SIL Holly, and me. Ryan said I should go. “Just smile and get through it,” he told me. “You know how she is.”
I did know. I knew exactly what I was walking into.
But I should’ve trusted my gut.
Let me explain.
Cheryl is the queen of the family. Think pearls, casserole dishes, and a smile that’s so sweet, it could turn sour if you weren’t careful. She’s all about “tradition,” and her favorite tradition is reminding everyone that motherhood is the most important thing a woman can do. She’s the type to say, “A woman’s greatest legacy is her children,” and she means it—every time.
She has three children. Amanda, the golden daughter, has two boys, and she posts about them non-stop. Derek, the youngest, married Holly, and they just had their second daughter three months ago.
Cheryl is obsessed with her grandbabies. Always holding one, posting pictures, calling herself “Grammy of Four.”
And then there’s me—the one who still hasn’t “fulfilled her purpose,” as Cheryl once put it over Thanksgiving dinner. She said it with a laugh, but it stung like a splinter in my chest.
Mother’s Day has always been a nightmare. I usually find an excuse not to go. Last year, I lied about meeting friends for brunch. The year before, I had a “cold.” Ryan usually plays interference, and everyone pretends not to notice. But this year, Cheryl got clever.
“No husbands,” she said. “Just us girls. A special night.”
Ryan urged me to go.
“She means well,” he said.
“She really doesn’t,” I replied.
Still, I went.
When I walked into the restaurant, I knew something was off.
Cheryl was wearing her good pearls and that smug smile of hers. Amanda was already there, giggling about how her youngest smeared peanut butter on the wall that morning. Holly showed up right after me, bouncing in with a giant diaper bag and scrolling through baby photos on her phone.
“Happy Mother’s Day, my darlings!” Cheryl beamed, handing out gift bags to Amanda and Holly.
Then she turned to me.
“Good of you to make it, dear.”
She patted my arm. That was it. No gift. No “Happy Mother’s Day.” Just that stiff little pat, like I was the awkward neighbor’s niece tagging along.
I forced a smile. “Thanks for the invite.”
We sat down, and Cheryl ordered a bottle of prosecco “for the mothers.” She poured three glasses. I got water. She didn’t even ask what I wanted.
Amanda leaned over. “You wouldn’t believe what Brayden did this morning,” she said, her voice full of excitement.
“Oh no,” Holly laughed. “What now?”
“He flushed my earrings down the toilet. The nice ones! From Jared!” Amanda burst into laughter.
I tried to chuckle along, but I couldn’t think of anything to add.
Cheryl jumped in. “Boys will be boys. Mine once shoved a Hot Wheels car up his nose. Remember that, Amanda?”
“Oh God, yes!” Amanda said. “Ryan cried so hard. You had to take him to urgent care!”
Everyone laughed. I just sat there, holding my glass and trying to smile.
“That sounds wild,” I said. “Kids do the strangest things.”
Holly looked at me, her expression polite but a little awkward. “Do you babysit much?”
“No,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “Not lately.”
Cheryl leaned over, her voice dripping with sweetness. “Well, hopefully someday soon, dear.”
I nodded, my throat tight, but I didn’t respond.
Then the waiter returned with dessert: three chocolate lava cakes and a plain fruit bowl, which he placed in front of Cheryl.
“For you, ma’am,” he said.
Cheryl gave a polite nod. “Too rich for my digestion,” she said, as if the rest of us didn’t already know. “But the rest of you enjoy.”
Amanda dug into her cake right away, moaning a little. “Oh my God, this is amazing.”
Holly grinned, already halfway through hers. “Worth every calorie.”
I just smiled and pushed a slice of strawberry around my plate. The sweetness was overwhelming, and I had no appetite.
Cheryl tapped her spoon against her glass with a few sharp clinks. The kind of noise that makes everyone freeze for a second. She stood up.
“Ladies, before we part ways tonight, I have a little something to share.”
Amanda perked up immediately. “Oh! Is it about the cabin next month?”
Cheryl waved her off. “No, no. This is more… practical.”
Her eyes turned to me, and I could feel the tension rise. I knew this wasn’t going to be good.
“Kaylee, dear,” she began, her tone sweet but cold, “you’re the only one at this table who isn’t a mother.”
The table went quiet.
“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way,” she went on, still smiling, “but it doesn’t seem fair to split the bill evenly.”
Amanda looked down at her lap. Holly reached for her wineglass, saying nothing.
Cheryl continued, calm as ever, “So we thought—since you’re not really celebrating anything—you could treat us this year.”
Then, without a second thought, she slid the check across the table toward me, as if she was doing me a favor.
I opened it. The total was $367. Three lobster tails. Three glasses of prosecco. Three desserts. I had grilled chicken and water. My throat tightened, but I swallowed it down and smiled.
“Of course,” I said quietly, reaching for my purse. “You’re right.”
Cheryl nodded once, as though she’d just settled something reasonable. Amanda didn’t look up. Holly kept sipping her wine, quiet.
I let a few seconds pass before I spoke again. “Actually,” I said, setting the check aside, “I’ve got something to share too.”
All three women looked at me. Amanda, surprised. Holly, curious. Cheryl, with that same patronizing look she always wore when she thought I was being dramatic.
I took a deep breath. “Ryan and I have decided to stop trying.”
Amanda blinked. Holly tilted her head. Cheryl opened her mouth, already preparing to speak.
“Well,” she said quickly, “that’s probably for the best, dear. Some women just—”
“We’re adopting,” I cut her off.
The shift in the room was immediate. Amanda’s eyes widened. Holly paused mid-sip. Cheryl froze, wineglass in hand.
“We got the call this morning,” I continued, letting the words settle. “We’ve been matched. A baby girl. She’s being born tomorrow. In Denver.”
My voice wobbled, but I steadied myself.
“The birth mother read our profile,” I added. “Saw our pictures. She told the agency we felt like home. Her words.”
Cheryl didn’t speak. Neither did anyone else.
I looked directly at Cheryl. “So technically,” I said, my voice firm, “this is my first Mother’s Day.”
The room was still.
I reached into my purse, pulling out a 20 and a five, and gently placed them on the table.
“Here’s $25,” I said. “That more than covers what I had.”
I turned to Cheryl. “I’m not paying for the rest. Being childless doesn’t make me your wallet—or your punchline.”
Her mouth opened, but no words came out. Amanda looked shocked. Holly watched me quietly.
I stood up, put on my coat, and glanced around the table one last time.
“Happy Mother’s Day,” I said, and walked out.
The next morning, we flew to Denver.
When the nurse placed Maya in my arms, something inside me cracked open. She was tiny, pink, and warm against my chest. She yawned, then curled her fist around my finger like she had always belonged there.
Her name means “illusion.” We didn’t choose it—her birth mother did—but it felt right. For years, I had chased the illusion that motherhood had to come in one certain way. Through biology. Through pain. Through Cheryl’s definition of “real.”
But holding Maya, all of that noise faded away.
Cheryl didn’t call me after the dinner. She called Ryan instead and left him three voicemails, saying I’d embarrassed her. That I’d “made a scene” on her holiday.
Ryan finally called her back. I overheard part of the conversation from the hallway.
“You embarrassed yourself,” he said. “Kaylee doesn’t owe you anything.”
She hasn’t called since. And that’s fine with me.
Because now, for the first time in a decade, I don’t feel like I’m missing anything. I don’t feel like the outsider. I’m not playing along with anyone’s script anymore.
I’m Maya’s mom. And that’s all I ever wanted to be.
