I was thirty-three, pregnant with my fourth child, and living in my in-laws’ house when my mother-in-law calmly delivered an ultimatum: if the baby wasn’t a boy, my three daughters and I were out. My husband didn’t object. He smirked and asked when I’d be leaving.
We stayed there under the excuse of “saving for a house,” but the truth was harsher. He enjoyed being cared for, and I became invisible. Our daughters—eight, five, and three—were everything to me, but to his mother they were disappointments. She made sure I knew it, and eventually, so did the children.
When I became pregnant again, the pressure intensified. This baby was declared “the heir” before I was even showing. When I asked my husband to make it stop, he told me plainly: every man needs a son.
One afternoon, while I folded laundry, my mother-in-law began packing our things into trash bags. My husband watched. Twenty minutes later, I stood barefoot on the porch with my crying daughters.
That eviction saved us. We left cruelty behind—and built a home where no child’s worth depends on their gender.
