My mother-in-law, Zinnia, seemed to believe my pregnancy was hers to steer. She painted the nursery blue without asking, burned sage to “ensure a boy,” and offered daily advice with a knowing smile. When I gave birth to a girl, her stunned reaction brought a quiet grin to my face… because I was ready.
Pregnancy felt like a marathon, with everyone—my doctor, Zinnia—trying to mark the finish line for me. Still, my heart brimmed with joy. My husband, Lucas, was my steady support, always gentle and attentive.
“Don’t stress, love. Rest. Want some kale?” he’d say, his voice warm.
But Zinnia… she sighed heavily from our first scan, not about the baby’s health—that wasn’t her concern. Her focus was something closer to her heart. “If it’s a girl, I don’t know how I’ll cope…” she said, her tone laced with unease.
“Cope with what?” I asked softly, though I knew her mind. “Well, our family’s all boys! I had three brothers, my husband had two!
Lucas’s the first grandson! A girl? It’d be… unfamiliar,” she said, her words tinged with disappointment.
“Were you a boy too?” I muttered under my breath. “Oh, dear, few girls grow up as remarkable as me,” she replied with a smug smile. I sighed, longing for one peaceful day.
Just one. Calling Zinnia “involved” was like calling a gale a breeze. She decided the nursery needed blue walls and painted it herself while I was home, battling nausea.
She burned herbs from her online “fertility circle,” pacing our flat, chanting:
“Strong seed, strong son!”
She insisted I rub my belly clockwise with warm oil every Thursday at 3 p.m. and once slipped a fertility stone into my smoothie. I wasn’t even in my third trimester yet.
At our 20-week scan, the doctor confirmed a boy. I exhaled, knowing it would hush Zinnia’s chatter. “I knew it!” she crowed, eyes gleaming.
“A little champion! I can see him kicking a ball already!”
“What if he loves poetry?” Lucas whispered, a grin sneaking through. Zinnia choked on her sparkling water, caught off guard.
Things calmed after that. I counted the days, slept with a pillow between my knees, and indulged in 3 a.m. mango smoothies, feeling like a radiant, hormonal goddess.
A week before my due date, Lucas kissed me goodbye, his smile apologetic. “Sweetheart, I’ll be gone two days—just two! Promise you’ll wait for me before the baby arrives,” he said tenderly.
“Okay,” I teased, hiding a twinge of worry. “I’ll keep the baby in with sheer willpower till you’re back.”
But a small knot of anxiety lingered. Sure enough, the next night, contractions hit.
I called Lucas—no answer. Typical. I called Zinnia—she was at my door in twenty minutes.
“I knew today was it! Your belly looked different yesterday. I could tell!” she said, brimming with certainty.
“Not the best time to discuss my belly…” I groaned, clutching the doorframe as another contraction rolled through. “Where’s your hospital bag? Who packed this?
Did you include an extra blanket? Honestly, I’m left to manage everything!” she fussed, her tone a mix of care and irritation. I eased into the car, cradling my belly, as she called three friends to announce: “We’re off to meet the grandson!”
She spoke with the assurance of a seasoned midwife.
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