“She isnt your daughterare you completely blind?”
I hadnt been seeing my future husband more than a year before we got married. When I first met his mother, I had no idea how cold and suspicious shed be, not just toward me, but toward our daughter, who arrived shortly after our wedding. The trouble began because our little girl was born a classic English blonde, with bright blue eyes, while my husband and his brother took after their Romani great-grandfather: dark, with thick hair and hazel eyes.
The first days on the maternity ward were overwhelming. My mother-in-law called, congratulated me, and insisted on seeing her granddaughter right away. That first meeting couldnt have gone worse. Her face tightened the moment she saw the baby, and in the hospital lobby, she leaned toward me and asked, loudly enough for everyone to hear, Tell me, did the staff swap your baby for someone elses?
The lingering silence was suffocating. She stared, waiting for my answer. Flustered, I stammered, Thats not possibleI was with her every minute.
She didnt say anything further at that moment, but the accusation was clear on her face. When I got back home and my husband and I were sat up one evening with the baby, his mother dropped the bombshell: She isnt your daughter. Are you completely blind? She looks nothing like you, and nothing like her mother either. Think about itsomeone else must be the father!
My husband froze in shock. His mother, relentless, kept pressing her doubts. She doesnt have a trace of you. Its plain as day. Face the facts.
He finally had enough. He told his mother to leave. I was crushed. Wed waited so long for this childmy pregnancy had been complicated and painfulbut our daughter was healthy, and when the doctor handed me that squalling pink bundle, he even joked, Look at those lungs! Shell be singing at the Royal Albert Hall one day.
I smiled at that, my heart light. I imagined family holidays, laughter, traditions. Instead, my husband’s mother shadowed us with suspicion. Even after her son told her off, she did not let upher phone calls turned persistent, her rare visits marked by biting remarks about me and my child. She never picked up her granddaughter, never asked to hold her. Sometimes, if she managed to corner her son, shed whisper that the only solution was a paternity test.
She didnt care if I could overhear from the sitting room. My husband stood by me, insisting, Shes my daughterI trust my wife. His mother dismissed him with a laugh that chilled the air. Well then, lets get proof, shall we?
One day, I snapped. I strode into the kitchen while she launched another campaign of doubt. Lets do the test already. Well buy a lovely photo frame and you can hang the result above your bed, so youll always rememberhes the father.
She shot me a furious glare, lost for words. My sarcasm hung thick in the airtoo obvious to misunderstand. Still, the test went ahead. My husband refused to even look at the results, knowing already what theyd confirm. His mother, after reading the neat folder, thrust it wordlessly into my hands.
I couldnt resist: So, do you want the frame in oak or walnut?
She fumed. Shes making a mockery of me! Thats probably a dodgy test anyway. My younger sons little boy is the image of himdark hair, those same eyes. Its clear hes ours.
In truth, the DNA result changed nothing. The war dragged on. Five years bled byyears of snide remarks and tension. Then, I fell pregnant again, three months after my husbands brothers wife. Wed grown close with them, and they could only roll their eyes as my mother-in-law sounded her doubts again.
Their second child was a girl, and when we visited, I peeped under the pram blanketmy laughter echoed in the room. There she was, the absolute double of my own daughter!
Everyone caught on straight away, and, still chuckling, I said, Go onwhose lover is she, then?
The joke landed. Relatives snickered, even my brother-in-law couldnt help but laugh. Only my husbands mother turned bright red, silent for the first time in years. That was the turning point. She stopped her nonsense; she even started making amends. When I first saw her playing with dolls on the carpet beside my daughter, I knew the ice had broken.
Now, our little girl is the oldest and, clearly, the favourite grandchildher darling girl, my berry, and every endearment you could think of. The gifts are endless. She spoils her and tries, in her own awkward way, to make up for those long years of distance and distrust. I dont resent her anymore, though a faint bruise lingers inside me. Hopefully, in time, even that will fade.
