When I first met Callum, I told myself to take it slow. But there was something about him—his genuine kindness, the way he truly listened, the way his eyes seemed to light up when they found me. He made me feel like I wasn’t just another person passing through life, but a story worth paying attention to.
Two years into our relationship, life surprised us: I became pregnant. It wasn’t planned, but Callum didn’t hesitate. On a rainy Tuesday evening, he knelt on our old apartment floor with a ring he couldn’t really afford and asked me to marry him. I said yes—not because of the pregnancy, not out of pressure, but because I believed in us, in the family we were starting to build.
Yet, his family never shared that belief.
The first time I met his mother, her smile felt calculated, the kind that signals judgment rather than warmth. Then came her question: “Where exactly are you from?” It wasn’t curiosity—it was a test, a reminder that I didn’t truly belong.
Her disapproval became sharper at our wedding. While I wore white, she chose black. When someone commented on her attire, she didn’t flinch. “Every union is a loss of some kind,” she remarked calmly.
After that, I wasn’t Callum’s wife in their eyes. I became “the girl he got pregnant.” My name, my role as a partner, my love for him—they were all erased, replaced with a label that stung every time it was whispered.
Even after our son was born nearly three years ago, they refused to soften. His mother never used my name. His sister Helena made jokes about our son’s curls being too “wild” for school photos. I wanted to scream, to leave, but I stayed—for Callum, for our child.
Whenever I shared how much their words hurt, Callum would sigh and say, “That’s just how she is. Don’t take it personally.”
But I did take it personally. How could I not?
Then came the day everything changed.
We were at his parents’ home for his father’s birthday. I was in the kitchen cleaning up after our son while Callum helped his dad with decorations outside. From the next room, I overheard his mother, Helena, and Aunt Margie talking.
Helena said, “I still think he panicked. If he hadn’t gotten her pregnant, would he really have married her?”
His mother replied, “I doubt it. He was in that rebellious phase, always trying to prove a point.”
Aunt Margie added with a laugh, “Poor boy. But he made his bed.”
My hand froze on the sponge. They didn’t just see me as a mistake—they treated my marriage, my family, as a burden Callum had to endure.
I walked out silently, sitting in the car with our son quietly snacking in the back. I swallowed the lump in my throat so he wouldn’t notice my tears.
That night, I didn’t confront Callum. I needed to process my feelings first. But this time, I knew exactly what had to happen next.
