My husband was supposed to stand by me, but my parents made sure he didn’t. When I couldn’t give him a child, they turned him against me and pushed him to leave. I lost everything—my family, my marriage, my home. When they saw me again, they expected misery. Instead, they were the ones in shock.
My parents always wanted a boy. When I was born, it wasn’t a joyful occasion for them—it was a disappointment.
Nothing I did was ever enough. They constantly demanded more, as if I had to prove my worth just to exist in their world.
When I finally moved out, I thought the weight would lift, but it didn’t. Their voices still echoed in my mind, reminding me that I had to be better, to do more, to make them proud. I still wanted their approval, even though I knew I would never get it.
Then I met Jordan. My parents adored him instantly. He was everything they had ever wanted in a child—except he wasn’t their child. And somehow, they loved him more than they ever loved me.
From the moment we got married, Jordan talked about having a child. He was excited, full of dreams of our future family.
At first, I was excited too. But after a year of nothing but disappointment, my hope faded. I wanted to stop trying.
“Let’s get checked,” Jordan said.
I looked away. “I don’t know. What if we find out something is wrong? I don’t want to hear bad news.”
Jordan pulled me into a hug. His warmth should have comforted me, but it didn’t. “No matter what, we have each other. That’s what matters.”
We took the tests. We met with doctors. I tried to stay hopeful, but dread followed me like a shadow.
Days later, I sat in the doctor’s office, gripping the armrests of my chair. My heart pounded in my ears. The doctor sighed, looking at my chart. Your test results show diminished ovarian reserve,” he began gently.
“It means conceiving naturally will be extremely difficult.”
The world stopped. I stared at him, unable to breathe. My hands went cold.
“But we can consider IVF,” he added. “It might take multiple cycles, but it’s one path we can explore.”
I nodded, but I barely heard him. His words blurred together. I needed to get out of there.
When I got home, I found Jordan in the living room, smiling. “I went to the doctor today,” he said, his eyes bright. “I’m completely healthy!”
I felt something snap inside me. Tears welled up, burning my eyes. My body shook.
Jordan’s face fell. He rushed toward me. “Mila, what’s wrong?” His hands gripped my arms.
I pulled away, covering my face. “The doctor… he said I won’t be able to conceive naturally.” My voice cracked.
Jordan went still. His grip on me loosened. I felt his shoulders tremble. Then I heard him sniff.
He was crying too. For a while, we just stood there, wrapped in silence. When our tears dried, we sat down at the kitchen table.
“So… what do we do now?” Jordan asked.
“The doctor suggested IVF as an option,” I said. “But it’s expensive. And it doesn’t always work on the first try.”
Jordan exhaled. He wiped his face and straightened his shoulders. “Then we’ll save up. We’ll try.”
I wanted to believe him. A few days passed. I was still processing everything. Then my phone rang. I glanced at the screen. My mother.
“Are you infertile?!” she screamed.
My breath caught. My stomach twisted. “What? How do you even know?”
“Jordan told us. How could you?!” Her voice dripped with disgust. “You are a disgrace!” she spat.
My throat burned. “I can’t control this.”
“It would’ve been better if you were born a boy!” she shrieked. “You can’t even be a proper woman! Fulfill your purpose!”
A lump rose in my throat. “So I’m not a woman if I can’t have a child?”
“You’re a joke,” she snapped.
I clenched my teeth. “The doctor said we can have a baby through IVF.”
“A test-tube baby?! That’s disgusting! I’m ashamed to call you my daughter! Jordan deserves better!”
Something inside me broke. Years of pain, rejection, and longing erupted at once. “You know what?! I’m done! I don’t want you or Dad in my life anymore! I’ve spent my whole life trying to please you, but I’ve had enough!”
Silence. Then she let out a bitter laugh. “Good. Now I won’t have to be embarrassed by you anymore.”
The line went dead. I dropped my phone, my hands trembling as a sob ripped from my chest.
How could she be so cruel? I curled up on the couch, crying until I had no tears left.
It hurt. It hurt more than anything. But I knew one thing. I had made the right choice.
When Jordan walked through the door, I didn’t wait. I stepped in front of him. “Why did you tell my parents that I’m infertile?”
Jordan sighed. He set his bag down. “They asked how things were going. What was I supposed to do? Lie?”
I clenched my fists. “You didn’t have to say anything! This is personal!”
“They’re your parents. They had a right to know,” he said.
I shook my head. “When did you even talk to them?”
“Today. They invited me to lunch,” he said.
I felt sick. “Great. Just great. For your information, I’m not talking to them anymore.”
Jordan rolled his eyes. “Mila, stop with the drama. You’re not the one suffering. Your husband can’t have a child because of you.”
I stared at him. My chest ached. “I’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.”
“Whatever,” he muttered, walking past me.
From that day on, Jordan pulled away. He barely spoke to me. When he did, his words were short, cold.
He stopped asking how I felt. He stopped looking at me the way he used to. At night, we sat in the same room but felt miles apart.
I told myself things would get better. I tried to act normal, but the weight of everything crushed me.
My parents had turned their backs on me. Now, my husband was slipping away too.
I focused on saving for IVF. Every extra dollar went into a separate account.
Meanwhile, Jordan spent without care. New gadgets filled the house. A sleek, expensive car appeared in the driveway.
He had never been reckless with money before. Now, it felt like he was proving something. Or maybe he just didn’t care about our future anymore.
One evening, Jordan came home and threw divorce papers onto the table in front of me.
“I want a divorce,” he said.
I stared at the papers, my hands frozen. “Why?” My voice shook. “I know we’re going through a tough time, but we’ll get through it. We just need to save for IVF.”
Jordan didn’t look at me. “I’ve already made my decision.”
I felt a lump in my throat. “Let’s talk about this. I don’t want to lose you.”
Jordan sighed. “It’s not just about you not being able to give me a child. There are other reasons.”
I searched his face. “What reasons?”
He shifted in place. “I don’t want to talk about it. I just want this to be over as soon as possible. It’ll be hard for both of us.”
I felt my chest tighten. My whole world was collapsing. My marriage, my family—everything was slipping away. Instead of support, I was being abandoned, as if my infertility was my fault.
At the divorce proceedings, I saw my parents walk in. My stomach dropped.
“What are you doing here? I told you I don’t want you in my life,” I said.
My father barely looked at me. “We’re here for Jordan, not for you.”
His words felt like a knife to the heart, but I stayed calm and stepped aside.
“You’re doing the right thing. She doesn’t deserve you,” I heard my mother say to Jordan.
“She’s not a real woman if she can’t give you a child,” my father added.
“It’s good that you listened to us and decided to leave her,” my mother said.
Jordan sighed and nodded. “Yes, you were right. I need someone else.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It felt unreal, but deep down, I knew it was true. My parents had always preferred Jordan.
They had turned him against me, made him believe I wasn’t enough. But the worst part wasn’t their betrayal.
It was his. My own husband had left me because my parents told him to. The man I loved, the one who had promised to stand by me, had chosen them over me.
I signed the papers. We divided everything—our home, our belongings, our lives.
Then I packed my bags and left. I moved to a new neighborhood, far from Jordan, far from my parents.
I wanted a fresh start, a place where their shadows couldn’t reach me. I threw away pictures, gifts, anything that reminded me of them.
I started therapy. I tried to rebuild myself. But no matter how much I healed, one thought never left my mind. I still wanted a child. I wanted to be a mother.
One afternoon, while walking home, I saw my cousin Jessica with her son. She smiled when she saw me.
“Mila! It’s been so long,” she said.
I smiled back. “It has.”
We talked for a while, catching up. Then I hesitated before asking, “Is it hard raising a child alone?”
“It’s hard,” she said. “But kids are hard even when both parents are around. That’s just how it is.”
Her son tugged at her hand. She smiled down at him. “But he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”
I felt something warm in my chest. That was exactly what I needed to hear.
Jessica studied my face. “Wait… are you pregnant?”
I shook my head. “No, no. But I’m thinking about having a child.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Really? On your own?”
“Yes.”
Jessica nodded. “That’s a big decision. How are you after the divorce? I’ve been meaning to ask.”
“It’s tough,” I said. “But I’m trying to move forward.”
Jessica sighed. “You know Jordan lives with your parents now, right?”
My stomach twisted. “What?!” My voice came out louder than I expected.
“I thought you knew.”
“I had no idea,” I said. “I don’t talk to them.”
Jessica shrugged. “Yeah, he moved in after the divorce. He said he needed support.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “I guess they finally got the son they always wanted.”
I asked Jessica not to tell my parents anything about me. I didn’t want them knowing where I lived, what I was doing, or that I was even thinking about becoming a mother. They had no place in my life anymore.
I focused on my future. I started the IVF process with an anonymous donor.
The first attempt failed, and I felt the weight of disappointment all over again.
But I refused to give up. On the second try, it worked. When I saw the positive test, I cried—tears of relief, of hope, of a future that finally felt right.
Months later, I held her in my arms. My daughter. My Hope. She wasn’t a reminder of pain. She was my reason to keep going.
One afternoon, I was out for a walk, pushing Hope’s stroller down a quiet street.
The sun was warm. The world felt peaceful. Then I saw them. My parents. Jordan. Walking together.
My heart pounded. My breath caught. I wanted to turn around, to disappear, but my feet wouldn’t move.
They saw me. Their steps slowed, their faces twisted in shock. And then, they walked toward me.
My mother’s eyes narrowed as she pointed at the stroller. “Who is this?”
I kept my face blank. “My daughter.”
Jordan’s head jerked back. “Daughter?” His voice was thick with disbelief.
“Yes,” I said, my tone flat.
I saw my parents exchange quick glances. Their expressions shifted—shock, curiosity, something else I couldn’t quite place.
My mother cleared her throat. “Listen, why don’t you invite us over? We can get to know our granddaughter.”
Jordan’s eyes brightened. “Yes! This is a great chance to talk. I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately.”
I let out a short, dry laugh. “Oh? Because you can’t find anyone else?”
Jordan rubbed the back of his neck. “Well… yeah. Now that I see you can have children, I think we should get back together. We’re not strangers.”
I stared at him. The audacity. The nerve.
My father took a step forward. “So? Will you invite us over?” He gestured toward Hope. “I’d like to meet my granddaughter.”
My hands tightened on the stroller handle. “You don’t deserve to meet her. I don’t want cruel people like you in my child’s life.”
My mother scoffed. “Oh, come on. Are you still mad?”
I felt something inside me snap. “You made my life hell when I was already suffering. I’d rather let a pack of wild dogs into my home than you.”
I turned on my heel and walked away. That was it. The final nail in the coffin. I didn’t need them. I had Hope.