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, they didn’t celebrate. There were no tears of joy, no proud smiles. Just disappointment. They never said it outright, but I could feel it in the way they treated me.
Nothing I did was ever enough. If I got good grades, they’d say, “That’s expected.” If I won an award, they’d say, “Why wasn’t it first place?” I had to work twice as hard just to get a small nod of approval.
I thought things would change when I moved out. I was wrong. Their voices still echoed in my mind, demanding more. Even though I was free, I still longed for something they would never give me—love.
Then I met Jordan.
He was charming, kind, and ambitious. My parents adored him instantly. “Finally,” my mother said, beaming, “you did something right.”
I should have known that was a warning.
From the moment we got married, Jordan dreamed of having a child. “Imagine our little one running around the house,” he’d say, eyes full of excitement.
At first, I was excited too. But months passed. Then a year. Then another. Every test was negative. Every cycle felt like a cruel joke.
I grew tired. “Maybe we should stop trying for a while,” I admitted one evening.
Jordan frowned. “We can’t just give up.”
“I’m not giving up,” I said softly. “I just need a break.”
He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Let’s get checked, then. Just to know what’s wrong.”
My stomach twisted. I didn’t want to know. What if it was me? What if I was broken?
Still, I agreed. We went to the doctor. Took the tests. Waited for the results.
Days later, I sat in the doctor’s office, gripping the armrests. The doctor looked at my chart and sighed. “Your test results show diminished ovarian reserve,” he said gently. “Conceiving naturally will be extremely difficult.”
The world blurred. I felt like I was sinking into the floor.
“But we can consider IVF,” he continued. “It may take multiple cycles, but it’s an option.”
I nodded numbly. I needed to leave. I needed air.
When I got home, Jordan was waiting. “I went to the doctor today,” he said, grinning. “I’m completely healthy!”
Something inside me shattered.
Tears burned my eyes. My hands shook. Jordan’s smile disappeared. “Mila, what’s wrong?”
I choked on my words. “It’s me. The problem is me.”
He went still. “What?”
“The doctor said I won’t be able to conceive naturally.”
Silence. Then a sniff. He was crying too. We held each other, but I could already feel something shifting between us.
A few days later, my phone rang. It was my mother.
The moment I answered, she screamed, “Are you infertile?!”
My heart dropped. “How do you know?”
“Jordan told us,” she spat. “How could you?!”
I felt sick. “I can’t control this.”
“You can’t even be a proper woman,” she hissed. “You had one job—to give your husband children. And you failed.”
Tears welled in my eyes. “We can do IVF.”
“A test-tube baby?” she scoffed. “That’s disgusting. Jordan deserves better.”
Something inside me snapped. Years of pain, rejection, and longing boiled over. “I’m done,” I said, my voice shaking. “I don’t want you or Dad in my life anymore.”
She let out a bitter laugh. “Good. Now I won’t have to be embarrassed by you.”
The call ended. I collapsed onto the couch, sobbing until I had no tears left.
When Jordan came home, I confronted him. “Why did you tell my parents?”
He sighed. “They asked how things were going. What was I supposed to do? Lie?”
I clenched my fists. “Yes! It was personal!”
“They’re your parents. They had a right to know,” he said dismissively.
I shook my head. “When did you even talk to them?”
“They invited me to lunch.”
I felt like I’d been punched. “Unbelievable.”
Jordan rolled his eyes. “Mila, stop the drama. I’m the one suffering here. My wife can’t give me a child.”
I stared at him. My chest ached. “I’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.”
“Whatever,” he muttered, walking away.
Jordan grew distant. He barely spoke to me. He started spending money carelessly—new gadgets, a sleek car. As if he was proving something. Or maybe, he just didn’t care anymore.
One evening, he threw divorce papers onto the table. “I want a divorce.”
I stared at them. “Why?”
“I’ve made my decision.”
I swallowed hard. “Can’t we talk about this?”
“There are other reasons too,” he said, avoiding my eyes.
I knew then—my parents had convinced him to leave me. And he listened.
At the divorce proceedings, my parents walked in. My stomach twisted.
“We’re here for Jordan,” my father said coldly.
I kept my head high.
“She’s not a real woman if she can’t give you a child,” my mother told Jordan.
Jordan nodded. “You were right.”
I signed the papers. Packed my things. Left everything behind.
I moved far away. Started fresh. Went to therapy. But one thing never changed—I still wanted to be a mother.
I started IVF with a donor. The first attempt failed. The second worked.
Months later, I held my daughter in my arms. My Hope.
One afternoon, I was out walking when I saw them—Jordan, my parents.
They froze when they saw me pushing the stroller.
My mother pointed. “Who is this?”
I met her eyes. “My daughter.”
Jordan’s face twisted. “Daughter?”
“Yes.”
My parents exchanged glances. My mother cleared her throat. “You should invite us over. We can get to know our granddaughter.”
Jordan smiled. “Yeah. We should talk.”
I laughed. “Oh? Because you couldn’t find anyone else?”
Jordan rubbed his neck. “Now that I see you can have children, maybe we could—”
I cut him off. “No.”
My father stepped forward. “We deserve to know her.”
I tightened my grip on the stroller. “You don’t deserve her.”
My mother scoffed. “Are you still mad?”
I smiled coldly. “I’d rather let wild dogs into my home than you.”
I turned and walked away. I didn’t need them.
I had Hope.