On Mother’s Day, I didn’t expect things to unfold the way they did. When my mother-in-law, Cheryl, handed me the check for a $367 dinner, she called it my “gift” to the real moms at the table. I just smiled, paid my part, and then gave her a surprise she would never forget.
I never imagined I’d be the one airing out family drama on the internet, but here we are. I’m 35, married to my husband Ryan for nearly 10 years. We’ve been through more fertility treatments, heartbreaks, and painful miscarriages than I care to count. Most of the time, I don’t even talk about it anymore—it hurts too much.
Being a mother is something I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember. I’ve dreamed of it, hoped for it, but… it just hasn’t happened.
This past Sunday was Mother’s Day. Cheryl, my mother-in-law, decided to host a “ladies-only” dinner—just her, my sister-in-law Amanda, my other sister-in-law Holly, and me. Ryan, as usual, told me to go. “Just smile and get through it,” he said. “You know how she is.”
And I did know. I knew exactly how she was.
I should’ve listened to my gut.
Let me explain a little more about Cheryl. She’s the queen of our family, always polished, always with the perfect pearls and that smug smile that can make you feel smaller than a bug under a wine glass. She’s obsessed with “tradition,” and her favorite tradition is reminding everyone that motherhood is a woman’s highest calling. She always says things like, “A woman’s greatest legacy is her children,” and she means every word.
She has three kids: Amanda, the golden child who has two boys and never stops posting about them; Derek, the youngest, who’s married to Holly and just had their second daughter three months ago. Cheryl is obsessed with those babies, constantly holding them, posting pictures, and proudly calling herself “Grammy of Four.”
Then there’s me. The one who hasn’t “fulfilled her purpose,” as Cheryl once put it at Thanksgiving dinner. She said it with a laugh, but it felt like a needle through my heart.
Mother’s Day has always been difficult for me. Every year, I find some excuse to avoid it. Last year, I said I had a brunch with friends. The year before, I claimed I had a cold. Ryan always runs interference, and everyone pretends not to notice. But this year, Cheryl had a new trick up her sleeve.
“No husbands,” she announced. “Just us girls. A special night.”
Ryan told me, “She means well.”
“She really doesn’t,” I shot back.
But I went anyway.
When I walked into the restaurant, something felt off. Cheryl was in her best pearls, flashing that smile that seemed to say she already had everything figured out. Amanda was already there, laughing about how her youngest had smeared peanut butter on the wall that morning. Holly arrived right after me, lugging a giant diaper bag and showing off baby photos on her phone.
“Happy Mother’s Day, my darlings!” Cheryl beamed as she handed gift bags to Amanda and Holly.
Then she turned to me. “Good of you to make it, dear,” she said with a quick, almost dismissive pat on my arm. No “Happy Mother’s Day,” no gift bag—just that awkward little touch as if I were some distant relative who didn’t belong.
I forced a smile. “Thanks for the invite.”
We sat down. Cheryl ordered a bottle of prosecco for the mothers and poured three glasses. I got water. She didn’t ask if I wanted anything else.
Amanda leaned in. “You wouldn’t believe what Brayden did this morning,” she said, giggling.
“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, but nothing came out. I just sat there, feeling the weight of the silence around me.
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!”
They all laughed again. I tried to join in, but my laugh was forced.
“That sounds wild,” I managed to say. “Kids do the strangest things.”
Holly looked at me politely, then asked, “Do you babysit much?”
“No,” I said, “not lately.”
Cheryl leaned over, her voice too sweet to be real. “Well, hopefully someday soon, dear.”
I just nodded. I didn’t trust myself to say anything else.
Then, dessert arrived: three chocolate lava cakes and a plain fruit bowl, which the waiter set in front of Cheryl.
“For you, ma’am,” he said.
Cheryl gave a polite nod. “Too rich for my digestion,” she said, looking at the rest of us like we were the ones overindulging. “But enjoy, my dears.”
Amanda dug in right away, moaning a little. “Oh my God, this is amazing.” Holly grinned and dug in too, halfway through her cake already.
I just pushed a slice of strawberry around my plate. I couldn’t find the appetite.
Cheryl tapped her spoon against her water glass, making those sharp, attention-grabbing clinks. She stood up, smiling that too-sweet smile. “Ladies, before we all part ways tonight, I have a little something to share,” she announced.
Amanda perked up. “Oh! Is it about the cabin next month?”
Cheryl waved her off. “No, no. This is more… practical.”
Then she turned to me, her smile widening. “Kaylee, dear,” she said with that sickly sweet tone, “you’re the only one at this table who isn’t a mother.”
The table went silent.
“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way,” she continued, “but it doesn’t seem fair to split the bill evenly.”
Amanda stared at her lap. Holly reached for her wineglass without saying a word.
Cheryl continued, unbothered. “So we thought—since you’re not really celebrating anything—maybe you’d be kind enough to treat us this year.”
And then, with a smirk, she slid the little black folder with the check across the table, as if 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 tightened, but I swallowed it down and smiled.
“Of course,” I said quietly, reaching for my purse. “You’re right.”
Cheryl nodded like she’d won some small victory. Amanda didn’t look up. Holly kept sipping her wine, saying nothing.
I let a few seconds pass. Then, I set the check aside and spoke again. “Actually,” I said, “I have something to share too.”
All three of them looked at me—Amanda with surprise, Holly with curiosity, Cheryl with that condescending expression she always wore when she thought I was being dramatic.
I took a deep breath. “Ryan and I have decided to stop trying.”
Amanda blinked. Holly paused mid-drink. Cheryl opened her mouth, probably ready to cut me off.
“Well,” she said too quickly, “that’s probably for the best, dear. Some women just—”
“We’re adopting,” I said, cutting her off.
The shift in the room was immediate. Amanda’s eyes widened. Holly froze. Cheryl’s expression faltered for a moment, but she quickly recovered.
“We got the call this morning,” I continued, steadying my voice. “We’ve been matched. A baby girl. She’s being born tomorrow. In Denver.”
I let the words sink in, one by one.
“The birth mother saw our profile, looked at our pictures, and told the agency we felt like home. Those were her words.”
Cheryl didn’t speak. Neither did anyone else.
I looked straight at her, making sure she heard every word. “So, technically,” I said, “this is my first Mother’s Day.”
The room stayed still.
I reached into my purse and pulled out a 20 and a five. I placed the $25 on the table.
“That more than covers what I had,” I said, not looking at anyone. “I’m not paying for the rest. Being childless doesn’t make me your wallet. Or your punchline.”
Cheryl’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. Amanda looked shocked. Holly just watched, silent.
I stood up, pulled on my coat, and turned to leave.
“Happy Mother’s Day,” I said softly, then walked out.
The next morning, we flew to Denver.
When the nurse placed Maya in my arms, something inside me shattered and then healed. She was tiny, warm, and perfect, nestled against my chest. She yawned once, then curled her tiny fist around my finger like she had always been meant to be mine.
Her name, Maya, means illusion. We didn’t choose it—her birth mother did—but it felt right. Because for so long, I chased the illusion that motherhood had to come in one certain way. Through biology. Through pain. Through Cheryl’s version of what made someone a “real” mother.
Now, holding Maya, all of that noise faded away.
Cheryl didn’t call me after dinner. She called Ryan instead, leaving three voicemails. She said I’d embarrassed her. That I’d “made a scene” on her holiday.
Ryan finally called her back. I overheard him from the hallway.
“You embarrassed yourself,” he said firmly. “Kaylee doesn’t owe you anything.”
She hasn’t called since, and that’s just fine by me.
Because for the first time in a decade, I don’t feel like I’m missing anything. I’m not the outsider anymore. I’m Maya’s mom—and that’s all I ever wanted to be.
