Patricia started calling this baby “the heir” at six weeks. She sent Derek links for boy nursery themes and “how to conceive a son” like it was a performance review.
Then she’d look at me and say, “If you can’t give Derek what he needs, maybe you should move aside for a woman who can.”
At dinner Derek would joke, “Fourth time’s the charm. Don’t screw this one up.”
I said, “They’re our kids, not a science experiment.”
He rolled his eyes. “Relax. You’re so emotional. This house is a hormone bomb.”
Later, I asked him straight: “Can you tell your mom to stop? She talks like our daughters are mistakes. They hear her.”
He shrugged. “Boys build the family. Every man needs a son. That’s reality.”
“And what if this one’s a girl?” I asked.
He smirked. “Then we’ve got a problem, don’t we?”
It felt like ice water down my spine.
Patricia ramped up in front of the kids.
“Girls are cute,” she’d say, loud enough for the whole house. “But they don’t carry the name. Boys build the family.”
One night Mason whispered, “Mom, is Daddy mad we’re not boys?”
I swallowed my anger. “Daddy loves you. Being a girl is not something to be sorry for.”
