When my son married, my daughter-in-law, Claire, declared she wanted no kids. I thought she was selfish, denying me grandchildren. At every holiday, every call, I pushed—hard. “You’d be such a great mom,” I’d say, ignoring her discomfort. Finally, Claire announced she was pregnant. I felt triumphant, certain my persistence had won. At four months, I saw her, glowing, and patted myself on the back.
But when the baby was “born,” Claire banned visits. I couldn’t resist; I drove over, eager to meet my grandchild. At their door, they looked ghostly, eyes wide. Peering inside, my heart stopped—no crib, no bottles, no baby. “We faked it,” my son admitted, voice flat. “Your nagging pushed us to lie, just to stop you.”
Claire’s eyes burned with hurt. “We needed peace.” My fury boiled—how dare they trick me? But as I drove home, their pale faces haunted me. Had I driven them to such lengths? Guilt crept in, tangling with my anger. I’d wanted a grandchild, but lost their trust instead. Months later, I apologized, voice shaking. They nodded, wary. Rebuilding started slowly, with fewer calls, no demands—just listening. It’s not the same, but we’re trying.