On Mother’s Day, my mother-in-law Cheryl invited me to a “ladies-only dinner” with my sisters-in-law. I should’ve known better. Cheryl showered them with gifts, ordered champagne “for the real moms,” and barely acknowledged me. At the end, she slid me the $367 bill, smiling sweetly as she called it my “gift” to them. My throat tightened, but I forced a smile and reached for my purse.

After a long pause, I set the check aside. “Actually, I have something to share,” I said. Cheryl smirked, already preparing to dismiss me. But I took a breath and continued: “Ryan and I have decided to stop trying.” She jumped in with her usual patronizing tone—until I cut her off. “We’re adopting. We were matched this morning. Our baby girl is being born tomorrow.”

The table froze. Cheryl’s smugness vanished, Amanda gaped, and Holly just stared. I laid $25 on the table. “That covers what I had. Being childless doesn’t make me your wallet. Or your punchline.” I stood, wished them a happy Mother’s Day, and walked out. Cheryl didn’t call me afterward—she called Ryan, furious. But he shut her down: “Kaylee doesn’t owe you anything.”

The next morning in Denver, a nurse placed our daughter Maya in my arms. She was tiny, warm, and perfect. For the first time in years, I didn’t feel like the outsider. I wasn’t missing anything. I was exactly where I belonged—finally a mom, on my own terms.