My mother-in-law accused me of betraying her son simply because I was expecting another girl—and that same night, she nearly sent me to the hospital while I was still carrying my baby.
My name is Isabela Cortés. I’m 27, and for years I believed my marriage to Alejandro Aranda was solid. We married in Querétaro in 2017 with a modest celebration—mariachi music, white flowers, and his mother, Doña Mercedes, crying as if she were giving away royalty. As we were leaving for our hotel, she held my hands and whispered:
“Now it’s time to give us the next Alejandro Aranda IV.”
I laughed nervously, thinking it was just an old-fashioned remark. I had no idea it would become an expectation that haunted me.
In Alejandro’s family, they prided themselves on a strange “tradition”—for over a century, only boys had been born. They spoke of it like a blessing, a mark of their lineage. So when I got pregnant during our honeymoon and we found out it was a girl, everyone was stunned. Alejandro needed time to process it, but when Lucía was born, something in him changed. He held her and cried in a way I had never seen.
“I didn’t know I could love this much,” he told me.
And for a while, it was true. He adored her. But his mother never accepted her the same way. Whenever Alejandro wasn’t around, she would drop cutting remarks.
“That doesn’t look like an Aranda nose.”
“Girls don’t happen in this family.”
“God sends signs for a reason.”
I stayed quiet, telling myself she was just bitter and old. I thought ignoring her would keep the peace. That was my mistake—thinking silence could shrink poison.
Two years later, I became pregnant again. When we found out it was another girl, I begged Alejandro to keep it private for a while. I wanted to enjoy my pregnancy without Mercedes’s interference. But he insisted.
“She’s my mother. She has a right to know. She’ll get over it.”
She didn’t.
We went to his parents’ house one Sunday. When Alejandro shared the news, Mercedes dropped her cup. Her face twisted, not with joy, but disbelief.
“No… that’s not possible.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She pointed at me.
“My son doesn’t make daughters. I ignored it once, but not twice. Those girls aren’t Arandas. You’re nothing but a liar.”
Alejandro exploded.
“Mom, stop! That’s my wife and my daughters!”
I grabbed Lucía, who began to cry, confused. Mercedes kept shouting—that I had stained their name, that Lucía didn’t belong, that the baby inside me proved my betrayal. Alejandro rushed us out and apologized the entire drive home. That’s when I finally told him everything she had said over the years. He hit the steering wheel in anger.
“She’s never coming near you again.”
For months, he kept that promise. We cut contact, avoided them, tried to move forward. But as my due date approached, Alejandro started to weaken. He said his father kept calling, that his mother cried every day, that maybe we should “be the bigger people.”
I agreed to one dinner—without Lucía—just to talk.
We expected an apology.
Instead, after dinner, Alejandro said:
“Mom, you owe Isabela an apology.”
Mercedes stared at me coldly.
“When I see a paternity test, then we’ll talk.”
I stood up to leave, but she grabbed my blouse.
“You’re not going anywhere, liar.”
Alejandro shouted. Mercedes slapped me, then hurled a glass ornament that split my head open. I fell, instinctively shielding my stomach as she tried to kick me.
At the hospital, I needed stitches and observation. Thankfully, the baby was safe. The police took a report. Alejandro held my hand and swore:
“I’ll protect you from her.”
That night, I still believed him.
