I’m Rachel, and pregnancy was a joyful chaos. My husband, Mike, was my support, always pushing rest and salads. But his mom, Karen, made it her stage. From our first ultrasound, she dreamed of a grandson, saying, “We’re a boy family!” When she sighed, “A girl? I’d struggle,” I quipped, “Were you a boy?” She chuckled, “Girls don’t match my spark.” I wanted quiet, but Karen took charge, painting our nursery cobalt while I nursed nausea, claiming it was “boy tradition.”
She burned odd herbs from her online “son rituals,” chanting for a “bold heir,” and had me rub my belly with oil every Monday at dawn. She even tucked a “male charm” in my soup. At our 20-week scan, the doctor said “boy,” and I hoped Karen’s rants would ease. “A future racer!” she beamed. Mike whispered, “What if he dances?” Karen balked. I savored late-night fries, but a week before my due date, Mike left for a short trip, saying, “Wait for me!” I laughed, “I’ll try.” That night, contractions hit.
Mike’s phone was off, so I called Karen, who rushed over, saying, “I knew it!” She fussed over my bag, calling pals about “our grandson.” In the car, she said, “Boys kick like champs!” I stayed silent, riding the pain. At the hospital, she called our baby “the prince.” Labor was tough, but the nurse’s “It’s a girl!” warmed my soul. My daughter’s face was everything. Karen stormed in, stunned. “A girl?” she cried. “The scan was wrong?” I said, “It can happen.” She whispered, “Is she Mike’s?” I glared, furious.
At the nursery, Karen fawned over a boy, saying, “He’s like Mike!” I said, “Not ours.” She glanced at my daughter, saying, “She’s… off. Girls aren’t right.” My baby deserved love, not scorn. On discharge day, I dressed her in blue with a bunny cap, blue blanket, and “It’s a Boy!” balloons. Mike, back with lilies, grinned, “My son!” then saw her pink mittens. “Hold on!” I said, “Boys love pink.” Karen gasped, “That’s a girl?” Mike said, “Your grandson, Mom.” I added, “Family jawline, see?”
Alone with Karen, I whispered, “I swapped for a boy, since you want one.” She choked, “You didn’t!” I smirked, “Maybe.” At home, CPS showed up, citing a baby switch report. Mike was floored. I handed over papers—bracelet, records, IDs—all perfect. The agent held my daughter, now in a peach outfit, saying, “She’s yours.” They asked about confusion. I said, “Just a family prank.” Mike grinned, knowing Karen’s hospital antics. I told Karen, “You called CPS. She’s got Mike’s jawline. Love her, or miss out.” She stood silent, shamed. My daughter’s value taught me family’s about heart, not gender.