I sat there frozen, clutching my baby as if my life depended on it. My heart pounded so loudly that I could barely hear the words coming out of my husband’s mouth. “What… what do you mean?” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t look at me. His hands shook as he held the envelope, his mother standing behind him with a smug expression. “This house belongs to her,” he muttered. “My mom. She’s evicting you. She says you’re poisoning our family with your presence.” He finally met my eyes, but there was no love, no remorse—just blind obedience to the woman who had controlled him all his life. Tears welled in my eyes as I looked down at my newborn daughter, her tiny face so peaceful, unaware of the storm raging around her. “You’re choosing her over us?” My voice cracked. “Over your own daughter?” My MIL scoffed. “That thing isn’t even fit to carry our family’s name! She should’ve been a boy. But you—” she pointed a manicured finger at me, “you ruined everything the moment you came into our lives.”
I felt the walls closing in. I had nowhere to go, no family nearby, and barely any money. My hands trembled as I grabbed the diaper bag, stuffing in whatever I could. “You’re making a mistake,” I whispered to my husband, praying for the man I had once loved to wake up from whatever spell his mother had cast. He just turned away. As I stepped outside into the cold night, my daughter wrapped tightly in my arms, I vowed that I would never let her grow up feeling unloved. I didn’t know what came next, but I knew one thing for sure—this wasn’t the end of my story. It was just the beginning.