My husband’s mistress and I were both pregnant. My mother-in-law said, ‘Only the one who gives birth to a boy will be allowed to stay.’ I immediately divorced him. Seven months later, the mistress’s baby shocked my husband’s entire family…
The day I found out I was pregnant, I thought this child would be the thread to save my marriage, which was already on the verge of breaking. But ironically, just a few weeks later, I discovered that my husband had a mistress. Worse, she was also carrying his child.
When the truth came out, my husband’s entire family didn’t just defend me—they started arguing. During a family meeting at their ancestral home in Lucknow, my mother-in-law coldly said:
“Whoever gives birth to a boy will stay. If not… you’ll figure out your own path.”
I was stunned. I realized that for them, the worth of a daughter-in-law was summed up in just two words: “boy.” There was no affection, no morality. I looked at my husband—Raghav—hoping he would object, but he just bowed his head and remained silent.
That night, I—Ananya—stayed awake. I knew that whether my child was a boy or a girl, I could not live in such a biased and cruel household. I decided to get a divorce. The day I signed the papers at the Lucknow Family Court, I cried, but I also felt relief—because I did not want my child to grow up amidst prejudice and selfishness.
I returned empty-handed and started afresh in Kanpur. Work kept me busy, my belly was heavy, but I was still strong. Thankfully, with the love of my parents and the support of my friends, I faced each day with resilience.
Meanwhile, I learned that my husband’s mistress—Shreya—was welcomed into the house like a “queen.” My husband’s entire family took care of her wholeheartedly, just waiting for the day her baby would be born. They were certain it would be a grandson, the heir they had always waited for.
Time passed, and seven months later, I gave birth to a daughter. She was small but healthy, with bright, clear eyes. Holding her in my arms, I was overwhelmed with joy. I didn’t care whether the child was a boy or girl—what mattered was that she was safe.
Then one day, I heard that Shreya had also given birth. My husband’s whole family rushed to the hospital in Delhi with joy, as if welcoming a savior. I thought to myself that they must be extremely happy. But just that afternoon, the news shocked me: the baby was a girl.
Not only that, the doctors revealed that the child had health issues and needed special care. My husband’s entire family, who had pinned all their hopes on a grandson, were now disappointed. Their faces turned pale. They turned away from me, looked down upon me, and finally, they learned a lesson: children are not defined by gender—they are living beings who need love, care, and protection.
Hearing this news stirred an indescribable feeling in my heart. It was not joy at someone else’s misfortune, but a bitter sense of justice. I felt compassion for the baby, because she was innocent. And I felt relief, because my decision to leave that household had been the right one.
A few months later, Raghav came to meet me, tired and remorseful. He apologized, hoping I would let him see his child. I looked at him—not with anger, but with distance. I said:
“You can see your child, but we will never be a family again.”
He stayed silent, tears in his eyes. Perhaps, at that moment, he truly understood: the love, happiness, and peace of a home do not lie in a child’s gender, but in the love and respect shared among its people.
My story didn’t end entirely tragically, nor entirely happily. I lost a marriage, but gained freedom and a little angel to love. And I realized that being a mother is the noblest act—one that requires no approval from anyone else.