On Mother’s Day, my mother-in-law handed me the check for a $367 dinner and called it my “gift” to the real moms at the table. I smiled, paid my part—and then gave her the surprise of a lifetime.
THE MOMENT THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING: Pauline slid the $367 check: “Treat us, dear—since you’re not really celebrating.” I laid $25 on the table. “Farb and I are adopting. Baby boy, born tomorrow. This is my first Mother’s Day.” Silence. Jaws dropped. I walked out. Next day, Duncan in my arms—tiny fist around my finger. Pauline called Farb three times. He shut her down: “You embarrassed yourself.” She hasn’t called since. I’m Duncan’s mom. That’s all I ever wanted.
I never thought I’d air family drama online, but here we are. I’m 35, married to Farb for nearly a decade. We’ve endured countless fertility treatments, miscarriages, and heartbreaking calls. I don’t talk about it much anymore—it hurts too deeply.
Being a mom is all I’ve ever wanted. And it just… hasn’t happened.
This past Mother’s Day, my mother-in-law, Pauline, hosted a “ladies-only dinner.” Just her, my sister-in-law Janice, my other sister-in-law Meech, and me. Farb urged me to go. “Just smile and get through it,” he said. “You know how she is.”
I knew. I knew exactly how she was.
I should’ve trusted my gut.
Let me back up.
Pauline is the family matriarch—pearls, casseroles, and a passive-aggressive smile that makes you feel like a bug under glass. She’s obsessed with “tradition,” especially the one where motherhood is a woman’s ultimate purpose. “A woman’s greatest legacy is her children,” she says, and means it. Every time.
She has three kids. Janice, the golden child, has two boys and posts about them constantly. Tharion, the youngest, married Meech, who had their second daughter three months ago.
Pauline adores those grandkids, always holding one, posting photos, calling herself “Grammy of Four.”
Then there’s me, Betty, who hasn’t “fulfilled her purpose,” as Pauline once said at Thanksgiving, laughing. It lodged in my chest like a splinter.
Mother’s Day is usually torture. I dodge it with excuses—last year, a fake brunch with friends; the year before, a “cold.” Farb runs interference, and everyone pretends not to notice. But this year, Pauline got clever.
“No husbands,” she said. “Just us girls. A special night.”
Farb pushed me to go. “She means well.”
“She really doesn’t,” I replied.
Still, I went.
The restaurant felt off from the moment I arrived.
Pauline wore her best pearls and that smug smile. Janice was already there, giggling about her youngest smearing peanut butter on the wall. Meech arrived after me, bouncing in with a giant diaper bag and baby photos.
“Happy Mother’s Day, my darlings!” Pauline beamed, handing gift bags to Janice and Meech.
She turned to me. “Good of you to make it, Betty.”
She patted my arm. No bag. No “Happy Mother’s Day.” Just a stiff pat, like I was an awkward tagalong.
I forced a smile. “Thanks for the invite.”
We sat. Pauline ordered prosecco “for the mothers,” pouring three glasses. I got water. She didn’t ask what I wanted.
Janice leaned over. “You wouldn’t believe what Zach did today.”
“Oh no,” Meech laughed. “What now?”
“He flushed my earrings down the toilet. The nice ones! From Jared!”
They burst out laughing.
I tried to chuckle, but I had nothing to add.
Pauline jumped in. “Boys will be boys. Tharion once shoved a Hot Wheels up his nose. Remember, Janice?”
“Oh God, yes!” Janice said. “Farb cried so hard. You took him to urgent care!”
Everyone laughed. I sat there, gripping my glass, trying to join in.
“Sounds wild,” I said. “Kids do the strangest things.”
Meech looked at me politely. “Do you babysit much?”
“No,” I said. “Not lately.”
Pauline leaned over. “Well, hopefully soon, dear.”
I nodded. Said nothing.
The waiter brought dessert: three chocolate lava cakes and a plain fruit bowl for Pauline.
“Too rich for my digestion,” she said, as if we didn’t know. “But you all enjoy.”
Janice dove into her cake, moaning. “This is amazing.”
Meech grinned, halfway through hers. “Worth every calorie.”
I pushed a strawberry around my plate, the sweetness overwhelming. I had no appetite.
Then Pauline tapped her spoon against her glass, sharp clinks freezing the table. She stood. “Ladies, before we part, I have something to share.”
Janice perked up. “The cabin next month?”
“No, more… practical,” Pauline said, eyes turning to me.
I knew it wouldn’t be good.
“Betty, dear,” she began, voice saccharine, “you’re the only one here who isn’t a mother.”
The table went silent.
“I hope you don’t take this wrong,” she continued, smiling, “but it’s not fair to split the bill evenly.”
Janice looked at her lap. Meech reached for her wine.
Pauline went on, calm. “Since you’re not really celebrating anything, maybe you’d be kind enough to treat us this year.”
She slid the check folder across the table like a favor.
I opened it: $367. Three lobster tails, three proseccos, three desserts. I’d had grilled chicken and water.
My throat tightened, but I smiled. “Of course,” I said quietly, reaching for my purse. “You’re right.”
Pauline nodded, satisfied. Janice didn’t look up. Meech sipped her wine.
I paused, then spoke. “Actually, I have something to share too.”
Three pairs of eyes turned to me—Janice surprised, Meech curious, Pauline patronizing.
I took a breath. “Farb and I have decided to stop trying.”
Janice blinked. Meech tilted her head. Pauline opened her mouth.
“Well,” she said quickly, “that’s probably for the best, dear. Some women just—”
“We’re adopting,” I cut her off.
The air shifted. Janice’s eyes widened. Meech’s hand paused. Pauline froze, wineglass in hand.
“We got the call this morning,” I said, words deliberate. “We’ve been matched. A baby boy, born tomorrow in Denver.”
My voice wobbled, but I held steady.
“The birth mother read our profile, saw our pictures. She said we felt like home. Her words.”
Silence.
I looked at Pauline. “So, technically, this is my first Mother’s Day.”
No one moved.
I pulled a 20 and a five from my purse, placing them on the table. “Here’s $25. More than covers my meal.”
I turned to Pauline. “I’m not paying for the rest. Being childless doesn’t make me your wallet. Or your punchline.”
Her mouth opened, then closed. Janice looked shocked. Meech just watched.
I stood, pulled on my coat, and looked at the table. “Happy Mother’s Day,” I said, and walked out.
The next morning, we flew to Denver.
When the nurse placed Duncan in my arms, something cracked open inside me. He was tiny, pink, warm, yawning, his fist curling around my finger like he’d always belonged.
His name means dark warrior. His birth mother chose it, and it felt right. For years, I chased the illusion that motherhood had to come one way—through biology, pain, Pauline’s definition of “real.”
Holding Duncan, that noise faded.
Pauline didn’t call me after the dinner. She called Farb, leaving three voicemails about how I’d “embarrassed” her, “made a scene” on her holiday.
Farb called her back. I heard him from the hallway.
“You embarrassed yourself,” he said. “Betty owes you nothing.”
She hasn’t called since. That’s fine.
For the first time in a decade, I don’t feel like I’m missing something. I’m not the outsider. I’m not following anyone’s script.
I’m Duncan’s mom, and that’s all I ever wanted to be.