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

I was folding laundry. The girls were playing with dolls. Derek was on the couch scrolling.

Patricia walked in carrying black trash bags.

My stomach dropped.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

She smiled. “Helping you.”

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

“Stop,” I said. “Those are my things.”

“You won’t need them here,” she said.

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

I grabbed the bag. “You can’t do this.”

She yanked it away. “Watch me.”

It was like being punched.

“Derek!” I called. “Tell her to stop.”

He appeared in the doorway, phone still in hand.

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