I was genuinely happy. My husband, Jake, was wonderful—calm, encouraging me to rest and relax.
But his mother, Sheila? Obsession over the baby’s gender started at our first ultrasound.
“If it’s a girl, I don’t know how I’ll cope,” she groaned. “Our family only has boys—three brothers, two brothers-in-law. Girls don’t fit.”
I mumbled, “Guess you weren’t always a girl, then.” She didn’t catch it—just flipped her hair and said, “Besides, girls don’t grow into powerful women like me.”
Her commentary never stopped. She painted the nursery blue, held sage rituals, bizarre fertility chants, and even tried sneaking a “boy-attracting” crystal into my smoothie.
At 20 weeks, the doctor confirmed—it was a boy. Sheila beamed: “Strong little man!” Jake whispered, “Or he might try ballet.” For a while, peace reigned.
Then, a week before delivery, Jake left for a business trip. “Don’t go into labor without me,” he joked. That night, contractions hit hard—and his phone died. I called Sheila, the last person I wanted.
She arrived in full force: hair-flips, bossing me about the hospital bag, and loudly predicting “Definitely a boy!” in the waiting room. At the hospital, she ran in screaming, “The heir is coming!”
Labor was brutal. Then the nurse announced, “Congratulations—it’s a girl!” Sheila froze. “A girl? That must be a mistake.” I cut her off: “She’s perfect.”
In the nursery, Sheila admired another baby boy: “That one looks just like Jake!” I held up my daughter. She smirked, “Well… she’s a bit unusual.”
That was it. On discharge day, I dressed our daughter in blue, added “It’s a BOY!” balloons. Sheila panicked. “Did you steal someone else’s baby?” Jake calmly replied, “Mom, you wanted a grandson, right?”
When she left, CPS showed up—someone reported a baby swap! We calmly showed ID bands, birth certificate. They confirmed the baby was ours and healthy. The agent asked if anything was misinterpreted; I mentioned my “joke.”
After they left, Sheila was pale. “You called CPS?” I reminded her of the resemblances—Jake’s jawline, etc.—and said, “Start loving her. She’s part of this family, whether you approve or not.”
Sheila didn’t reply. Jake asked, “All good?” I said, “Perfect.” Our daughter is here to stay—and finally accepted.