I was 33, pregnant with my fourth child, and still living at my in-laws’ house when my mother-in-law, Eun, stared at me and said outright that if this baby wasn’t a boy, she would force me and my three daughters to leave. My husband, Fred, just grinned and asked, “So when are you heading out?”
I’m 33, American, and during that pregnancy—my fourth—my mother-in-law treated me as if I were defective for giving birth to daughters.
We lived with Fred’s parents supposedly “to save money for our own home,” which was the excuse we repeated. But to Eun, our three girls were disappointments. She saw them not as family, but as failures.
Fred seemed content to return to the comforts of being the pampered son. His mother cooked, his father covered expenses, and I became the on-site caregiver, responsible for everything yet owning nothing in that house.
Our daughters were Eun, eight; Pilar, five; and Enid, three. They meant everything to me. To Eun, they counted as nothing.
“Three girls. Poor thing,” she would murmur.
When I carried Eun, she commented, “Let’s hope you don’t ruin the family legacy, sweetie.” Once Eun was born, she sighed, “Okay, try again next time.” During the second pregnancy, she said, “Some ladies simply can’t produce boys. Probably runs in your family.” By the third, she stopped pretending—touching their heads and repeating, “Three girls. Poor thing,” like I was some tragic headline.
Fred never intervened.
Then came the fourth pregnancy. From week six, Eun started calling the baby “the heir.” She sent Fred articles and suggestions for boy nurseries, treating the baby’s gender like a performance goal. She’d fix her eyes on me and say, “If you can’t deliver what Fred truly wants, perhaps make room for someone who can.” Fred stayed quiet.
I pleaded with him. “Could you ask your mom to back off?” His inaction only emboldened her. Over dinner, he joked, “Fourth attempt—better not blow it this time.” I retorted, “They’re our children, not some test run.” He rolled his eyes. “Take it easy. You’re too worked up. This place is loaded with hormones.”
In the bedroom that night, I tried again. “Please tell her to stop. She talks like our daughters don’t count. The girls hear every word.”
He shrugged. “She wants a grandson. Most men do. It’s normal.”
“And if it’s another girl?” I asked.
He smirked. “Then we’ve got trouble, don’t we?”
The tension escalated. Eun grew louder, even around the children. “Girls are adorable,” she’d declare, “but they don’t continue the family name. Boys keep things strong.”
The threat came in the kitchen. While I cut vegetables and Fred scrolled on his phone, Eun waited for the TV to distract the room, then said plainly: “If you don’t produce a boy for my son this time, you and your girls can pack up and leave. I won’t watch Fred get stuck in a house full of women.”
I turned to Fred. He didn’t look surprised. He looked entertained.
“You’re fine with her saying that?” I asked.
“So when are you leaving?” he replied.
My legs went weak. “You mean it? You’re okay with her acting like our daughters aren’t worth anything?”
“I’m 35. I want a son,” he shrugged.
Something inside me broke.
Soon, it felt like a timer was ticking. Eun lined up empty boxes in the hall, hinting, “Just getting organized. No reason to wait till the end.” She even spoke to Fred about turning the nursery blue once I was gone. I cried alone in the shower, whispering apologies to my unborn child.
The only person who stayed neutral was Ben, Fred’s father. He quietly carried groceries, listened to the girls, and never belittled them. One morning, he returned from work early and immediately noticed something was off. Eun had begun packing our things into black trash bags.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Lending a hand,” she said, with a thin smile.
She began shoving clothes into the bags—mine and the girls’—without order or care. I tried to stop her. Fred shrugged in the doorway. “You’re going anyway,” he said.
I felt the weight of helplessness. My three daughters were crying, my belongings were being treated like garbage, and my husband looked on, amused.
I called my mother. “Can we come stay with you?” I asked. “Please.” She didn’t judge—she just said, “Send your location. I’m on my way.”
That night we slept on a mattress at my parents’ house. The next afternoon, a knock came. Ben stood there, not in work clothes, but flannel and jeans. His jaw was tight, his eyes furious.
“Get in the car, sweetheart,” he said softly. “We’re going to make Fred and Eun face what they’ve done.”
I refused. “I’m not returning.”
“You’re not begging to return. You’re coming along. That’s not the same,” he said.
We secured the girls in his truck. I sat in front, heart racing. Silence stretched as we drove.
Ben arrived at the house. He confronted Fred and Eun directly. “You put my granddaughters and pregnant daughter-in-law outside? You can’t do that.”
Fred tried to argue. Eun tried to justify it. Ben stood firm: respect over cruelty, kindness over entitlement.
That night, the girls stayed safe. Ben helped move our bags to a modest apartment. “I’ll cover rent for a few months,” he said. “Then it’s up to you. My grandkids deserve a stable home.”
I cried—not over Fred, but over finally having safety. I delivered my fourth child in that apartment. A boy. Fred sent one text: “Looks like you finally succeeded.” I blocked him.
The real victory wasn’t the boy. It was that all four of my children now grow up in a home where nobody threatens them for being born the “wrong” gender. Ben visits every Sunday, brings donuts, calls my daughters “my girls” and my son “little man.” No ranking. No heir nonsense.
Sometimes I remember Ben saying: “Get in the car, sweetheart. We’re going to show Fred and Eun what’s really waiting for them.” They thought the solution was a grandson. What showed up was consequences—and me finally walking away.