Family, Fertility, and Mother’s Day

I’m 35, married to Ryan for nearly ten years. We’ve endured fertility struggles, miscarriages, and silent heartbreak. I stopped sharing our pain long ago—“some pain is just too private.” All I’ve ever wanted was to be a mother.

Cheryl’s Dinner

This Mother’s Day, my mother-in-law Cheryl hosted a “ladies-only” dinner. Ryan encouraged me to go: “Just smile and get through it.” Cheryl is the kind who believes “a woman’s greatest legacy is her children.” She showers attention on my sisters-in-law, Amanda and Holly—both mothers. At Thanksgiving once, she joked that I “still haven’t fulfilled her purpose.” It wasn’t funny.

The Dinner Table Moment

At the restaurant, Cheryl gave gifts to Amanda and Holly. To me: “Good of you to make it, dear.” No present. No prosecco. Dinner was full of baby stories. I sat in silence.

Then Cheryl tapped her glass. “Kaylee, dear… you’re the only one at this table who isn’t a mother. So, it doesn’t really feel fair to split the bill evenly, does it?” She slid me the $367 check. I’d had water and grilled chicken.

I smiled. “Of course. You’re right.” Then I added, “Actually, I have something to share, too.”

A New Beginning

“We’re adopting. We got the call this morning. A baby girl. She’s due tomorrow. In Denver.” I looked them all in the eye. “This is my first Mother’s Day.”

I left $25 on the table. “Being childless never made me your punching bag. Or your wallet.” Then I walked out.

The next day, I held Maya for the first time. Her tiny fingers wrapped around mine. Her birth mom had named her—Maya, meaning “illusion.”

I used to think motherhood had one definition. Cheryl’s definition. But now I know better.

I’m Maya’s mom. And that’s all I ever needed to be.