Derek never flinched.
Then I got pregnant again. Patricia started calling this baby “the heir” at six weeks. She sent Derek links for boy nursery themes and “how to conceive a son,” as if it were a performance review.
Then she’d look at me and say: “If you can’t give Derek what he needs, maybe you should move aside for a woman who can.”
At dinner Derek would joke: “Fourth time’s the charm. Don’t screw this one up.”
I said, “They’re our kids, not a science experiment.”
He rolled his eyes. “Relax. You’re so emotional. This house is a hormone bomb.”
Later, I asked him directly: “Can you tell your mom to stop? She talks like our daughters are mistakes. They hear her.”
He shrugged. “Boys build the family. Every man needs a son. That’s reality.”
“And what if this one’s a girl?” I asked.
He smirked. “Then we’ve got a problem, don’t we?”
