My MIL Said, 'Give My Son a Boy or Get Out' – Then My Husband Looked at Me and Asked, 'So When Are You Leaving?'

He looked entertained.

"You're okay with that?" I asked him.

He leaned back, smirking.

"So when are you leaving?"

My legs went weak.

"Seriously?" I said. "You're fine with your mom talking like our daughters aren't enough?"

"A real boy's room."

He shrugged. "I'm 35, Claire. I need a son."

Something in me cracked.

After that, it was like they put an invisible clock over my head.

Patricia started leaving empty boxes in the hallway.

"Just getting ready," she'd say. "No point waiting until the last minute."

She'd stroll into our room and say to Derek, "When she's gone, we'll make this blue. A real boy's room."

He wasn't warm, but he was decent.

If I cried, Derek would sneer, "Maybe all that estrogen made you weak."

I cried in the shower.

I rubbed my belly and whispered, "I'm trying. I'm sorry."

The only person who didn't throw jabs was Michael, my FIL.

He was quiet. Worked long shifts. Watched the news. He wasn't warm, but he was decent.

He'd carry in groceries without making a big deal. He'd ask my girls about school and listen to the answer.

Patricia walked in carrying black trash bags.

He saw more than he said.

Then one day, everything snapped.

Michael had an early, long shift. His truck pulled out before sunrise.

By mid-morning, the house felt… unsafe.

I was in the living room folding laundry. The girls were on the floor with their dolls. Derek was on the couch scrolling, like always.

Patricia walked in carrying black trash bags.

I followed her.

My stomach dropped.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

She smiled. "Helping you."

She marched straight into our room.

I followed her.

She yanked open my dresser drawers and started shoving everything into the bags. Shirts, underwear, pajamas. No folding. Just grabbing.

"You can't do this."

"Stop," I said. "Those are my things. Stop."

"You won't need them here," she said.

She went to the girls' closet. Pulled down jackets, little backpacks, tossed them on top.

I grabbed the bag. "You can't do this."

She yanked it away.

"Watch me," she said.

It was like being punched.

"Derek!" I called. "Come here."

He appeared in the doorway, phone still in his hand.

"Tell her to stop," I said. "Right now."

He looked at the bags. At Patricia. At me.

"Why?" he said. "You're leaving."

It was like being punched.

"Go wait in the living room."

For complete cooking steps, go to the next page or click the Open button (>), and don't forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends

«« Previously ext »»