When I first met Callum, I told myself to take it slow. He was sweet, he listened, and he looked at me like I was made of magic. We dated for almost two years before I got pregnant. It wasn’t planned, but he was there—proposing on a rainy Tuesday night with a ring that looked way too expensive for his budget.
I said yes. Not because I felt pressured, but because I believed in us. In our little family.
But his family… oh, they never believed in me.
The first time I met his mom, she gave me that tight-lipped smile and asked, “So, where exactly are you from?” Not in the normal way—she meant it like a quiz. Like I was trying to sneak into something I didn’t belong to.
At our wedding, she wore black. Literally black. When someone asked if it was a mourning outfit as a joke, she just smiled and said, “Every union is a loss of some kind, right?”
They don’t call me his wife. They say “the girl he got pregnant,” like I’m some temporary mistake that just won’t leave. Even now, with our son almost three, his mom has still never said my name. Not once.
Callum sees it. I know he does. But he always says, “That’s just how she is. Don’t take it personally.”
Not take it personally?
When his sister made a “joke” about my son’s curls being too ‘wild’ for school pictures, I nearly walked out. But I didn’t. I stayed. I smiled. For Callum. For our kid.
But last weekend, something happened. Something that made me realize I might’ve been trying too hard to be accepted by people who’ll never accept me.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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