My MIL Said She’d Kick Me Out Of The House If I Didn’t Give Birth To A Boy This Time

Michael’s voice was calm, steady. “Pack your things, Patricia. You don’t throw my grandchildren out of this house and stay in it.”

Chaos followed.

Patricia slammed drawers, throwing clothes into a suitcase. Derek paced, swearing under his breath.

My girls sat at the table while Michael poured them cereal, like nothing else existed.

That night, Patricia left to stay with her sister. Derek went with her.

Michael helped me load the trash bags back into his truck.

But instead of taking us back into that house, he drove us to a small, cheap apartment nearby.

“I’ll cover a few months,” he said. “After that, it’s yours. Not because you owe me. Because my grandkids deserve a door that doesn’t move on them.”

I cried then. For real. Not for Derek. For the first time, I felt safe.

I had the baby in that apartment.

It was a boy.

Everyone always asks.

People say, “Did Derek come back when he found out?”

He sent one text: “Guess you finally got it right.”

I blocked his number.

Sometimes I think about that knock on my parents’ door.

Because by then, I’d figured something out: