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

"We did not agree to this," I said.

He shrugged. "You knew the deal."

Patricia grabbed my prenatal vitamins, dropped them into the bag like trash.

Mason appeared behind Derek, eyes huge.

"Mom?" she said. "Why is Grandma taking our stuff?"

"Go wait in the living room, baby," I said. "It's okay."

"Don't do this."

It was not okay.

Patricia dragged the bags to the front door and flung it open.

"Girls!" she called. "Come tell Mommy goodbye! She's going back to her parents!"

Lily started sobbing. Harper wrapped herself around my leg. Mason stood there, jaw tight, trying not to cry.

I grabbed Derek's arm.

"Please," I whispered. "Look at them. Don't do this."

Our life stuffed into trash bags.

He leaned in close.

"You should've thought about that before YOU KEPT FAILING," he hissed.

Then he straightened and folded his arms like a judge watching a sentence carried out.

I grabbed my phone, the diaper bag, whatever jackets I could reach.

Twenty minutes later, I stood barefoot on the porch.

Three little girls crying around me. Our life stuffed into trash bags.

"Text me where you are."

Patricia slammed the door and locked it.

Derek didn't come out.

I called my mom with shaking hands.

"Can we come stay with you?" I asked. "Please."

She didn't lecture. She just said, "Text me where you are. I'm on my way."

That night, we slept on a mattress in my old room at my parents' house.

The next afternoon, there was a knock.

The girls were pressed against me. My belly felt like it might crack from the stress. I had cramps and panic and shame all at once.

I stared at the ceiling and whispered to the baby, "I'm sorry. I should've left sooner. I'm sorry I let them talk about you like you were a test."

I had no plan.

No apartment. No lawyer. No money of my own.

I just had three kids, a fourth on the way, and a broken heart.

The next afternoon, there was a knock.

He saw the trash bags and the girls.

My dad was at work. My mom was in the kitchen.

I opened the door.

Michael stood there.

Not in uniform. Jeans. Flannel. He looked tired and furious at the same time.

"Hi," I said, already bracing.

He looked past me. He saw the trash bags and the girls.

"You're not going back to beg."

His jaw tightened.

"Get in the car, sweetheart," he said quietly. "We're going to show Derek and Patricia what's really coming for them."

I took a step back.

"I'm not going back there," I said. "I can't."

"You're not going back to beg," he said. "You're coming with me. There's a difference."

My mom came up behind me. "If you're here to drag her—"

"What did they say?"

"I'm not," he cut in. "They told me she 'stormed out.' Then I got home and saw four pairs of shoes missing and her vitamins in the trash. I'm not stupid."

We loaded the girls into his truck.

Two car seats, one booster. I climbed into the front, heart pounding, hand on my belly.

We drove in silence for a bit.

"What did they say?" I asked.

He opened the front door without knocking.

"They said you ran home to your parents to sulk," he said. "Said you couldn't handle 'consequences.'"

I laughed bitterly. "Consequences for what? Having daughters?"

He shook his head. "No. Consequences for them."

We pulled into the driveway.

"Stay behind me," he said.

He opened the front door without knocking.

Derek paused his game.

Patricia was at the table. Derek was on the couch.

Patricia's face twisted into a smug smile when she saw me.

"Oh," she said. "You brought her back. Good. Maybe now she's ready to behave."

Michael didn't look at her.

"Did you put my granddaughters and my pregnant daughter-in-law on the porch?" he asked Derek.

Derek paused his game. "She left," he said. "Mom just helped her. She's being dramatic."

"I know what I said."

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