The mother-in-law discovered that her grandson was from a donor—and turned her back on our entire family.
If someone had told me that a single sentence could erase everything—love, devotion, plans for the future, years of attachment—I wouldn’t have believed them. Now I live with that truth every day. Not like a confession but like an open wound that refuses to heal. Because in this story, there was a child. Our son. Her grandson. Whom she adored beyond reason—until the moment she learned he wasn’t “blood-related.”
When Simon and I married, I was twenty-three, he was twenty-five. Young, cheerful, full of dreams. We longed for a family, for children. We wanted three. We didn’t wait, even though we lived in a rented flat in Manchester, scraping by with pennies in our pockets, counting every penny, celebrating only once a month with a takeaway pizza. But we were happy. Truly.
A month passed, then two, then half a year—nothing. We went for tests. My health was perfect, but Simon… a verdict. Complete infertility. Zero chance of conception. We visited multiple clinics, even traveled to a fertility center in London. Everywhere, the same answer. He withdrew. Suggested divorce. Said, “Why would you want me like this?” I waved it off. I hadn’t chosen the father of my children—I’d chosen my husband, the man I wanted to walk through life with. We made a decision: a donor would be the answer.
It was a difficult path. But thanks to the discretion of the doctors, we walked it with quiet resolve. No pain. They gave us donor profiles, and I let Simon choose. He picked one who looked just like him—height, hair, even the eyes. I never once doubted my choice.
My mother-in-law, Margaret, had been enthusiastic from the start. Every month, she’d ask, “Well, Sophie, any news?” She celebrated when we told her about the pregnancy. Threw a party, hugged me like family. Throughout, she fussed over me—baking pies, knitting tiny socks, even queuing with me at the clinic. For the first time, I began to warm to her. Thought we were lucky.
When our son was born—we named him Simon, after his father—Margaret nearly lost herself in joy. From day one, she was a full-time grandmother. Prams, blankets, toys—nothing was too much. She even bickered with my own mother over who’d hold him first. After some champagne, they laughed, hugged. It was picture-perfect.
Only Simon and I knew the truth about the donor. But our boy was the spitting image of his father—face, gestures, everything. Margaret would coo, “Simon, he’s your double!” My husband would just nod silently, while I’d whisper:
“Is it time to tell her?”
“Not yet,” he’d say. Ashamed. Afraid of rejection.
Time passed. Our son grew, Margaret still doted—toys, treats, always saying, “He’s my only grandchild, so spoil him! Let him have cars, planes, everything!” But that word—”only”—started to unsettle me.
Then, when little Simon turned two, she began pressing for another.
“When will you give him a sister? Or a brother? He’d love it! Here’s an idea—what if I buy him pajamas for Christmas, and you give him a sibling!” She’d laugh, but I knew she meant it.
I held my tongue. Until one day, when she came over for tea with yet another teddy bear and yet another “hurry up and have another,” I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Margaret… Our son was conceived with a donor. Simon can’t have children. There won’t be another.”
Silence. Her face froze. Eyes glassy. She looked at me, then at little Simon, who tugged her hand—and she pulled away. No words. No explanation. Just… distance. Then she left without a goodbye.
I told my husband. He sighed,
“It’s starting.”
A week passed. No calls, no messages. When Simon went to see her, he returned devastated. She talked about everything—the weather, her health, TV shows—but didn’t once ask about our son. As if he’d vanished. A month later, we learned she’d signed her flat over. Not to her grandson. To a niece. Though just half a year before, she’d promised, “Everything for little Simon! His future comes first!”
Simon just turned three. Margaret didn’t come. Didn’t call. I swallowed tears when he asked,
“Mummy, did Granny Margaret forget me?”
I didn’t know what to say. And I don’t know what comes next. My husband blames me for telling her. But I couldn’t live in that tension anymore—hiding the truth like something shameful.
I hold onto one hope: that love for a grandchild, even one “not by blood,” is stronger than pride. That someday, she’ll return. Knock. Hug. And say again,
“Now, what’s new with our little Simon?”
Because blood isn’t what matters. It’s who holds your hand when you take your first steps. Who stands beside you. I hope she remembers… before it’s too late.
