When I got pregnant, my mother-in-law, Sheila, immediately acted like it was her baby repainting the nursery blue, chanting bizarre “fertility” rituals, and pushing her belief that we had to have a boy. Even after our ultrasound suggested it was a boy, she clung to the fantasy of a grandson with obsession, dismissing any talk of a girl. But deep down, I knew the gender didn’t matter love was what counted. Still, Sheila made my pregnancy a parade of pressure and unsolicited advice, all rooted in her obsession with continuing the “male legacy.”

Then came the twist during labor, Jake was away, and Sheila rushed me to the hospital. Hours later, I gave birth to a healthy, beautiful baby girl. The nurse placed her gently on my chest, and my heart exploded with love. Sheila, however, barged into the delivery room, took one look, and recoiled in shock. “A girl?” she spat, as if I’d handed her a bill instead of a baby. Her disappointment turned cruel, even going so far as to question if the baby was Jake’s that’s when I knew I had to teach her a lesson.

At discharge, I dressed my daughter in blue, complete with a balloon bouquet that said “It’s a BOY!” The look on Sheila’s face when she saw the baby, paired with my cheeky line about swapping babies, was priceless. I let her stew in uncertainty long enough for her to report us to CPS. When they arrived, I had all the paperwork ready and smiled sweetly while they confirmed everything was fine. As they left, Jake and I shared a knowing look. Sheila, humiliated and cornered, finally realized she’d gone too far.

Later, in the kitchen, I confronted her. She stammered excuses, claiming she panicked but I wasn’t buying it. Holding my baby close, I reminded her that whether she liked it or not, this little girl was her granddaughter. “Start loving her fast,” I said. “She’s family.” And just like that, I walked away, head held high with my daughter in my arms and the final word behind me.