On Mother’s Day, my MIL handed me the check for a $367 dinner and called it my “gift” to the real moms at the table. I smiled, paid my part—and then gave her the surprise of a lifetime.
I never thought I’d be that person, airing family drama on the internet, but here we are. I’m 35, married to my husband Ryan for almost 10 years. We’ve been through more fertility treatments, miscarriages, and heartbreaking phone calls than I can count. I don’t even talk about it with most people anymore. It hurts too much.
Being a mom is the one thing I’ve wanted more than anything in this life. And it just… hasn’t happened.
This past Sunday was Mother’s Day. My MIL, Cheryl, decided to host a “ladies-only dinner.” Just her, my sister-in-law Amanda, my other SIL Holly, and me. Ryan said I should go. “Just smile and get through it,” he told me. “You know how she is.”
I knew. I knew exactly how she was.
I should’ve trusted my gut.
Let me back up a bit.
Cheryl is the queen of the family. Think pearls, casserole dishes, and that passive-aggressive smile that makes you feel like a roach under a wine glass. She’s all about “tradition,” and her favorite tradition is reminding everyone that motherhood is the most important thing a woman can do. She says things like, “A woman’s greatest legacy is her children,” and means it. Every time.
She has three kids. Amanda, the golden daughter, has two boys. She posts about them non-stop. Derek, the youngest, married Holly. They just had their second daughter three months ago.
Cheryl is obsessed with both those babies. She’s always holding one, posting photos, calling herself “Grammy of Four.”
Then there’s me. The one who still hasn’t “fulfilled her purpose,” as Cheryl once put it over Thanksgiving dinner. She said it with a laugh, but it stuck in my chest like a splinter.
Mother’s Day is usually a nightmare. I always find some excuse. Last year, I lied about a brunch with friends. The year before, I had “a cold.” Ryan runs interference, and everyone pretends not to notice. But this year, Cheryl got clever.
“No husbands,” she said. “Just us girls. A special night.”
Ryan pushed me to go.
“She means well,” he said.
“She really doesn’t,” I said back.
Still, I went.
When I walked into the restaurant, I knew something was off.
Cheryl was wearing her good pearls and that smug smile. Amanda was already there, giggling about how her youngest smeared peanut butter on her wall that morning. Holly showed up right after me, bouncing in with a giant diaper bag and baby photos on her phone.
“Happy Mother’s Day, my darlings!” Cheryl beamed, handing gift bags to Amanda and Holly.
She turned to me.
“Good of you to make it, dear.”
She patted my arm. That was it. No bag. No “Happy Mother’s Day.” Just that stiff little pat, like I was the neighbor’s awkward niece tagging along.
I forced a smile. “Thanks for the invite.”
We sat down. Cheryl ordered a bottle of prosecco “for the mothers.” She poured three glasses. I got water. She didn’t ask what I wanted.
Amanda leaned over. “You wouldn’t believe what Brayden did this morning,” she said.
“Oh no,” Holly laughed. “What now?”
“He flushed my earrings down the toilet. The nice ones! From Jared!”
They both burst out laughing.
I tried to chuckle along, but I couldn’t think of anything to say.
Cheryl jumped in. “Boys will be boys. Mine once shoved a Hot Wheels car up his nose. Remember that, Amanda?”
“Oh God, yes!” Amanda said. “Ryan cried so hard. You had to take him to urgent care!”
Everyone laughed. I just sat there, holding my glass, and tried to join in.
“That sounds wild,” I said. “Kids do the strangest things.”
Holly looked at me, kind of polite. “Do you babysit much?”
“No,” I said. “Not lately.”
Cheryl leaned over. “Well, hopefully someday soon, dear.”
I nodded. I said nothing.
The waiter came back with dessert: three chocolate lava cakes and a plain fruit bowl, which he set in front of Cheryl.
“For you, ma’am,” he said.
Cheryl gave a polite nod. “Too rich for my digestion,” she told us, as if the rest of us didn’t know that already. “But the rest of you enjoy.”
Amanda dove into her cake right away, moaning a little. “Oh my God, this is amazing.”
Holly grinned, already halfway through hers. “Worth every calorie.”
I just smiled and pushed a slice of strawberry around my plate. The sweetness smelled overwhelming. I didn’t really have the appetite.
Then Cheryl tapped her spoon against her water glass with a few sharp clinks. The kind that makes everyone freeze for just a second. She stood up and said, “Ladies, before we all part ways tonight, I have a little something to share.”
Amanda perked up immediately. “Oh! Is it about the cabin next month?”
Cheryl waved her off. “No, no. This is more… practical.”
Her eyes turned to me, and I knew whatever was coming next wasn’t going to be good.
“Kaylee, dear,” she began with a tone that was too sweet to be real, “you’re the only one at this table who isn’t a mother.”
The whole table went quiet.
“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way,” she went on, still smiling, “but it doesn’t seem fair to split the bill evenly.”
Amanda looked down at her lap. Holly reached for her wineglass, not saying a word.
Cheryl continued, calm as ever. “So we thought — since you’re not really celebrating anything — maybe you’d be kind enough to treat us this year.”
Then she slid the little black folder with the check across the table toward me, like she was doing me a favor.
I opened it. The total was $367.
I stared at it. Three lobster tails. Three glasses of prosecco. Three desserts. I’d had grilled chicken and water. My throat felt tight, but I swallowed it down and made myself smile.
“Of course,” I said quietly, reaching for my purse. “You’re right.”
Cheryl nodded once, like she’d just settled something reasonable. Amanda didn’t look up. Holly kept sipping her wine.
I let a few seconds pass before I spoke again. “Actually,” I said, setting the check aside, “I’ve got something to share too.”
All three women looked at me. Amanda with surprise, Holly with curiosity, Cheryl with the same patronizing expression she always wore when she thought I was being dramatic.
I took a steady breath. “Ryan and I have decided to stop trying.”
Amanda blinked. Holly tilted her head. Cheryl opened her mouth, already getting ready.
“Well,” she said a little too fast, “that’s probably for the best, dear. Some women just—”
“We’re adopting,” I said, cutting her off.
The shift was immediate. Amanda’s eyes went wide. Holly’s hand paused halfway to her mouth. Cheryl sat still, wineglass in hand.
“We got the call this morning,” I continued, letting the words land one at a time. “We’ve been matched. A baby girl. She’s being born tomorrow. In Denver.”
I felt my voice wobble, but I didn’t let it fall apart.
“The birth mother read our profile,” I said. “Saw our pictures. She told the agency we felt like home. Her words.”
Cheryl didn’t speak. Neither did anyone else.
I looked straight at her. “So technically,” I said, “this is my first Mother’s Day.”
Nobody moved.
I reached into my purse and pulled out a 20 and a five. I placed the bills gently on the table.
“Here’s $25,” I said. “That more than covers what I had.”
I turned to Cheryl. “I’m not paying for the rest. Being childless doesn’t make me your wallet. Or your punchline.”
Her mouth opened, then closed again. Amanda looked shocked. Holly was just watching me, quiet.
I stood up, pulled on my coat, and looked around the table one last time.
“Happy Mother’s Day,” I said and walked out.
The next morning, we flew to Denver.
When the nurse placed Maya in my arms, something inside me cracked wide open. She was tiny and pink and warm against my chest. She yawned once, then curled her fist around my finger like she’d always belonged there.
Her name means illusion. We didn’t choose it — her birth mother did — but it felt right. Because for years, I chased the illusion that motherhood had to come one certain way. Through biology. Through pain. Through Cheryl’s definition of “real.”
Now, holding Maya, all that noise fell away.
Cheryl didn’t call me after the dinner. She called Ryan instead — left him three voicemails. Said I’d embarrassed her. That I’d “made a scene” on her holiday.
Ryan finally called her back. I heard him from the hallway.
“You embarrassed yourself,” he said. “Kaylee doesn’t owe you anything.”
She hasn’t called since. And that’s fine.
Because now, for the first time in a decade, I don’t feel like I’m missing something. I don’t feel like the outsider. I’m not playing along with anyone’s script anymore.
I’m Maya’s mom, and that’s all I ever wanted to be.