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They Made Me Pay $367 for Everyone’s Mother’s Day Meal Just Because I Don’t Have Kids — I Made Sure My MIL Would Regret It

On Mother’s Day, my mother-in-law handed me the check for a $367 dinner and called it my “gift” to the real moms at the table. I smiled, paid my part—and then gave her the surprise of a lifetime.

I never thought I’d air family drama online, but here we are. I’m 35, married to Jexon for nearly a decade. We’ve endured countless fertility treatments, miscarriages, and heartbreaking calls. I don’t talk about it much anymore—it hurts too deeply.

Being a mom is all I’ve ever wanted. And it just… hasn’t happened.

This past Mother’s Day, my mother-in-law, Maris, hosted a “ladies-only dinner.” Just her, my sister-in-law Myrvie, my other sister-in-law Lena, and me. Jexon urged me to go. “Just smile and get through it,” he said. “You know how she is.”

I knew. I knew exactly how she was.

I should’ve trusted my gut.

Let me back up.

Maris is the family matriarch—pearls, casseroles, and a passive-aggressive smile that makes you feel like a bug under glass. She’s obsessed with “tradition,” especially the one where motherhood is a woman’s ultimate purpose. “A woman’s greatest legacy is her children,” she says, and means it. Every time.

She has three kids. Myrvie, the golden child, has two boys and posts about them constantly. Tharion, the youngest, married Lena, who had their second daughter three months ago.

Maris adores those grandkids, always holding one, posting photos, calling herself “Grammy of Four.”

Then there’s me, Zeryn, who hasn’t “fulfilled her purpose,” as Maris once said at Thanksgiving, laughing. It lodged in my chest like a splinter.

Mother’s Day is usually torture. I dodge it with excuses—last year, a fake brunch with friends; the year before, a “cold.” Jexon runs interference, and everyone pretends not to notice. But this year, Maris got clever.

“No husbands,” she said. “Just us girls. A special night.”

Jexon pushed me to go. “She means well.”

“She really doesn’t,” I replied.

Still, I went.

The restaurant felt off from the moment I arrived.

Maris wore her best pearls and that smug smile. Myrvie was already there, giggling about her youngest smearing peanut butter on the wall. Lena arrived after me, bouncing in with a giant diaper bag and baby photos.

“Happy Mother’s Day, my darlings!” Maris beamed, handing gift bags to Myrvie and Lena.

She turned to me. “Good of you to make it, Zeryn.”

She patted my arm. No bag. No “Happy Mother’s Day.” Just a stiff pat, like I was an awkward tagalong.

I forced a smile. “Thanks for the invite.”

We sat. Maris ordered prosecco “for the mothers,” pouring three glasses. I got water. She didn’t ask what I wanted.

Myrvie leaned over. “You wouldn’t believe what Brayden did today.”

“Oh no,” Lena laughed. “What now?”

“He flushed my earrings down the toilet. The nice ones! From Jared!”

They burst out laughing.

I tried to chuckle, but I had nothing to add.

Maris jumped in. “Boys will be boys. Tharion once shoved a Hot Wheels up his nose. Remember, Myrvie?”

“Oh God, yes!” Myrvie said. “Jexon cried so hard. You took him to urgent care!”

Everyone laughed. I sat there, gripping my glass, trying to join in.

“Sounds wild,” I said. “Kids do the strangest things.”

Lena looked at me politely. “Do you babysit much?”

“No,” I said. “Not lately.”

Maris leaned over. “Well, hopefully soon, dear.”

I nodded. Said nothing.

The waiter brought dessert: three chocolate lava cakes and a plain fruit bowl for Maris.

“Too rich for my digestion,” she said, as if we didn’t know. “But you all enjoy.”

Myrvie dove into her cake, moaning. “This is amazing.”

Lena grinned, halfway through hers. “Worth every calorie.”

I pushed a strawberry around my plate, the sweetness overwhelming. I had no appetite.

Then Maris tapped her spoon against her glass, sharp clinks freezing the table. She stood. “Ladies, before we part, I have something to share.”

Myrvie perked up. “The cabin next month?”

“No, more… practical,” Maris said, eyes turning to me.

I knew it wouldn’t be good.

“Zeryn, dear,” she began, voice saccharine, “you’re the only one here who isn’t a mother.”

The table went silent.

“I hope you don’t take this wrong,” she continued, smiling, “but it’s not fair to split the bill evenly.”

Myrvie looked at her lap. Lena reached for her wine.

Maris went on, calm. “Since you’re not really celebrating anything, maybe you’d be kind enough to treat us this year.”

She slid the check folder across the table like a favor.

I opened it: $367. Three lobster tails, three proseccos, three desserts. I’d had grilled chicken and water.

My throat tightened, but I smiled. “Of course,” I said quietly, reaching for my purse. “You’re right.”

Maris nodded, satisfied. Myrvie didn’t look up. Lena sipped her wine.

I paused, then spoke. “Actually, I have something to share too.”

Three pairs of eyes turned to me—Myrvie surprised, Lena curious, Maris patronizing.

I took a breath. “Jexon and I have decided to stop trying.”

Myrvie blinked. Lena tilted her head. Maris opened her mouth.

“Well,” she said quickly, “that’s probably for the best, dear. Some women just—”

“We’re adopting,” I cut her off.

The air shifted. Myrvie’s eyes widened. Lena’s hand paused. Maris froze, wineglass in hand.

“We got the call this morning,” I said, words deliberate. “We’ve been matched. A baby girl, born tomorrow in Denver.”

My voice wobbled, but I held steady.

“The birth mother read our profile, saw our pictures. She said we felt like home. Her words.”

Silence.

I looked at Maris. “So, technically, this is my first Mother’s Day.”

No one moved.

I pulled a 20 and a five from my purse, placing them on the table. “Here’s $25. More than covers my meal.”

I turned to Maris. “I’m not paying for the rest. Being childless doesn’t make me your wallet. Or your punchline.”

Her mouth opened, then closed. Myrvie looked shocked. Lena just watched.

I stood, pulled on my coat, and looked at the table. “Happy Mother’s Day,” I said, and walked out.

The next morning, we flew to Denver.

When the nurse placed Lila in my arms, something cracked open inside me. She was tiny, pink, warm, yawning, her fist curling around my finger like she’d always belonged.

Her name means night. Her birth mother chose it, and it felt right. For years, I chased the illusion that motherhood had to come one way—through biology, pain, Maris’s definition of “real.”

Holding Lila, that noise faded.

Maris didn’t call me after the dinner. She called Jexon, leaving three voicemails about how I’d “embarrassed” her, “made a scene” on her holiday.

Jexon called her back. I heard him from the hallway.

“You embarrassed yourself,” he said. “Zeryn owes you nothing.”

She hasn’t called since. That’s fine.

For the first time in a decade, I don’t feel like I’m missing something. I’m not the outsider. I’m not following anyone’s script.

I’m Lila’s mom, and that’s all I ever wanted to be.

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