I prepared for my mother-in-law’s “special gift” during my daughter’s first birthday. I had endured months of subtle barbs since we employed a surrogate, but that gift bag shocked me.
I greeted Rosa, who grasped my hands and smiled warmly, staring at me like she was memorizing me. I felt unique, even selected.
“You’re just right for him,” she whispered, gripping my fingers. Absolute perfection.”
Rosa accepted me into her family once Javier and I married. We had few interests, but we laughed over coffee over his cousin’s sloppy tamales at a family reunion, an internal joke we treasured.
Our close relationship made it difficult when Rosa turned on me.
Javier and I consulted a reproductive expert after a year of trying. After months of testing, I was diagnosed with “Early ovarian failure.” I couldn’t bear a kid since my eggs were bad.
Javier and I mourned our ideal family, but a chat with our friend Sofía altered everything.
“You could adopt,” Sofía said one day. “Or try surrogacy.”
I looked at Javier and said, “Surrogacy could work.” “Where would we start?”
“I’d do it for you,” Sofía said.
A casual offer was taken up. We drafted contracts with our fertility doctor and lawyer.
Things were promising… until we told Rosa.
Surrogacy and egg donation. “Oh, Ana, that’s a bold choice,” she observed, hinting my judgment was dubious. “Won’t you feel left out, knowing another woman raised Javier?”
“No, not at all,” I answered, loathing my defensiveness. Sofia, our surrogate, is ideal for this role.
As Rosa looked to Sofía, her eyes brightened up. “What a gift for my son,” she added, patting Sofía’s hand. “That biological link is precious. Every youngster needs it.”
Sofia moved uneasily. I’m merely giving Rosa eggs and carrying the baby. All done.”
“Of course,” Rosa said, still focused on Sofía. The lady who bears the infant has a special attachment.
Her words chilled me.
It was our turn at the gender reveal party. I spent weeks arranging, hanging lights around the lawn and letting the evening air waft fragrant jasmine. After Rosa came, the atmosphere changed.
She moved around the attendees like she owned the party, caressing arms and chatting to relatives.
I heard her whispers in the yard.
I am grateful for the loving intervention, she told my mother.
“The baby will have a strong maternal figure,” she told her aunt.
She said, “It’s like it was meant to be,” to my cousins.
My stomach fell as she toasted with a glass. All eyes were on her.
She dedicated her remarks to Sofía, the mother of her son and grandson. You gave us family.”
Polite claps and uneasy stares followed. We sliced the cake when I alerted Javier.
I stood beside Javier, happy, ready to cut the cake. Rosa stopped me as I lifted the knife.
“Wait! Need the mother. Sofía?” She brought Sofía to Javier’s side, holding her shoulders.
Sofia reddened and said, “Sorry, Ana. This is wrong.”
Rosa was already speaking over the yard, telling visitors to take photographs. Come closer! Perfect. Beautiful family.”
While holding the knife, I saw Javier’s puzzled look and felt like I was slipping into my own existence.
Isabella, born in April, has black curls like her father. I sobbed with excitement upon holding her.
Rosa was creating the tale. Without telling us, she brought a photographer to the hospital.
She depicted Sofía cradling Isabella with Javier nearby, describing it as a “generational bond.”
“We need to capture this moment,” she said. “This lovely start.”
I appeared in several images, but always on the fringe, like a family extra.
Within days, Rosa shared a social media carousel of Sofía holding Isabella and Javier grinning. Caption: “Proud of my son and Sofía. What lovely parents for my darling granddaughter! Blessed Abuela #NewFamily #PerfectBond
I mentioned it, and she blinked innocently. Ana, I highlighted miracle-makers. You grasp.”
I didn’t. Looking at the lady I laughed with, I wondered whether we ever connected.
Sofía revealed a shocking revelation during our coffee meeting.
Rosa has been calling me, Sofía whispered. “She wants to buy Isabella’s stuff together. She continues messaging about how Javier and I have wonderful parenting connection and I’m a natural with her.
Chest constricted. “What?”
“I told her you’re Isabella’s mom, and I’m not parenting her,” Sofía replied. “She laughed, Ana.”
Finally: “She doesn’t see me as Isabella’s mom.”
Words hurt, but saying them felt good.
“It’s creepy,” Sofía added. She’s behaving like I’m in a fake family narrative. You own Isabella.”
She was correct, but I couldn’t stop it.
“I’ll ask Javier to talk to her,” I responded.
“Thanks,” Sofía moaned. Rosa used to be compassionate, but now she seems to be in her own world.
Isabella’s first birthday verified our rightness. I remained up late tying ribbons and decorating cupcakes with homemade frosting, the kitchen smelling like vanilla. As Javier snuck frosting bits, we giggled, a rare moment of joy.
All went well until Rosa came late, kissing Sofía and embracing her before presenting me with a tissue-filled gift bag.
“A special gift from Abuela,” she remarked. “Open now, Ana. Everyone should see.”
I took out a big picture frame as visitors leaned in, their grins dimming.
A unique image depicted Sofía carrying Isabella, Javier’s arm around her, and standing on our doorstep as a wonderful family. I wasn’t there.
The room quieted.
Javier stared in shock as Sofía covered her lips. “What’s this, Mom? Where’s Ana?
Rosa nonchalantly shrugged. “I wanted to capture her creators’ bond. The biological link important, right?
Sweetly beaming, she turned to me. “In your own way, Ana, you’re part of her life. Like a kind aunt.”
It felt like the earth collapsed. I looked at her grin and the artwork and realized I had to act.
I put the frame back in the bag and gave Javier. I confronted Rosa.
You must depart. Now.”
Nervously, she laughed. “You’re overreacting, Ana. Just a picture.”
“It’s not just a picture,” I remarked, staying calm despite my rage. “It’s another attempt to erase me from my daughter’s story.”
“Your daughter’s tale?” Rosa elevated brow. “Let’s be real about who made this family.”
No flinching. Please go peacefully or I’ll have someone escort you out.”
She blushed, but Javier intervened.
“Take this,” he handed her the sack. We don’t want it.”
Rosa frowned. She took the bag and left, mumbling.
My in-laws texted me that night, chastise me for wrecking Isabella’s celebration and embarrassed Rosa.
Javier seized my hand. I should have quit sooner. Nothing was ruined. Family was safeguarded by you.”
A nagging guilt: Was I too harsh?
