I gave her a grandchild, but she gave me a family
She wanted to steal my baby. That was the only reason my mother-in-law stood in my minuscule living room with a new, yellow stroller. She claimed it was a gift, but my postpartum, sleep-deprived brain created a different scenario, one where I was merely a breeder for my husband’s family.
It made sense. My husband had no cousins, and Molly had lost five pregnancies and suffered a stillbirth before having James, her only child. Even though she never shared the details of her losses, I knew she dreamed of a large family — something me and my fertile womb could provide.
“Let me take Ryan for a walk.” Molly extended her arms. “You need rest. You’ve been up for days.”
I clung to my newborn son with one arm and pulled a knit blanket over my lap with the other. My breasts ached from nursing, my groin ached from childbirth, and my heart ached from the non-stop coverage of 9–11 that I couldn’t stop watching.
It was September 23, 2001, and Ryan was three weeks old. The world had fallen apart, and now my mother-in-law wanted to steal my baby.
“No.”
Molly sat next to me and rested her hand on my shoulder as I cradled my sleeping son. “Mia, you need to rest. Let me help you.”
