My femininity and womanhood is artificial because I purchased it through medical intervention and Mary. How dare you.
My mothering is not up to par because my daughter feeds mostly from a breast milk-filled bottle instead of directly from the breast. How dare you.
I—as well as my husband and own mother—am evil.
My husband and I are evil because we accepted your gifts, but as Rowan’s homecoming approached you challenged me, and I drew back. You challenged my ability as a mother. You spoke of me in front of my parents in an antagonist manner, questioning my competency. Your intent is to dethrone me as my parent’s only daughter; this has been your intent for several years now. You announced your plan to visit my two-bedroom home with six other people three days after Rowan’s homecoming. I responded with a kind “No, but you and your mother are welcome to visit”. You pushed me, and my “No” became sterner. Because of this, I am ungrateful for all that you’ve done for me. I am unreasonable. You pick at and mock my baby and her prematurity; my husband distances himself from you—we are evil. I do not allow you to hold my daughter; your energy is very negative and unstable. My daughter is a jewel; you will not tamper with her physically, emotionally, psychologically. She’s one heck of a fighter, but I refuse to expose her to such an aura as yours. Because I did not allow you to hold my daughter, I am evil.
My mother is evil because she was excited about my pregnancy; she planned and hosted my baby shower; she and my father celebrated Rowan’s homecoming with us—purchasing celebratory snacks and libations, and spending the evening at home with us, watching movies and offering support—instead of spending time at your home while you offer them the silent treatment and go about your hobbies in a separate room. My mother is evil because she has given Rowan the dresses she made for me when I was a young girl; she gave the dresses to my girls instead of yours. Oh—she’s also evil because she cares for Rowan Monday through Friday while my husband and I go to work. My mother—the third person to know I was pregnant (after my husband and me). My mother—the one who spent days with me in the hospital; offered strength in my presence and vulnerability toward the doctor outside of my presence, asking him if I was going to be okay; collapsing in his arms when he assured her the c-section went well. *My mother—the one who spent time with Rowan even before I did. *My mother—the one who watched Emmanuelle die alongside me. *My mother—the one who arranged for Emmanuelle’s cremation. *My mother—the one who has humbled herself to do my chores, fold my laundry, clean up my clutter, make me dinner. She’s my mother, and she is evil because she’s mine—not yours.
There is much more, but I will not expose your secrets and personal business like you’ve exposed mine. I express only the ways in which you’ve offended me. How dare you speak of my infertility, IVF treatments, donor egg treatment, Rowan, and Emmanuelle.
You remind me that I carry much bitterness and rage. My dear, you’ve not walked a millimeter in my shoes. Look in the mirror; examine your own heart. I’ve always treated you with courtesy; I’ve always been cordial. And yet you’ve sought to replace me among my brothers and parents.
Belittling a woman’s value among her family—you’ve done it now, dear sister. You’ve done it now.
*My loving mother-in-law also did these things for me.