Meeting your future in-laws is supposed to be a milestone—an exciting, if nerve-wracking, step into a new chapter. I had imagined warm smiles, light conversation, maybe even a few embarrassing baby photos of Mark. What I didn’t expect was cold stares, judgmental whispers, and a confrontation that would shake the foundation of my relationship.

Mark and I had been together for a year when he proposed. It wasn’t a grand gesture—no fairy lights or choreographed speeches—but it was heartfelt. He took my hands in his, his voice trembling slightly, and asked me to build a life with him. I said yes without hesitation.

The proposal came just weeks after we found out I was pregnant. It wasn’t planned, but once we saw those two pink lines, something shifted. There was fear, of course. But there was also a quiet kind of joy, a sense that our love had created something even bigger. Mark was over the moon. We both were.

So when the day came to meet his parents for dinner, I wanted to make a good impression. Mark had warned me they were strict—traditional, in his words—but I believed I could win them over. I had always prided myself on being warm, approachable, and sincere. Surely that would count for something.

I spent nearly an hour trying on outfits. Mark, watching from the doorway, smiled each time and told me I looked great. But I wasn’t aiming for great—I needed to look flawless. First impressions carry weight, especially with people who may be sizing you up as a wife and mother in a single glance.

Eventually, I settled on the first outfit I’d tried on—an irony that made me laugh. I twisted my hair into a neat braid and took a deep breath.

“Do you think they’ll like me?” I asked, studying Mark’s reflection beside mine in the mirror.

He smiled, reaching for my hand. “Of course, they’ll like you. How could they not?”

“But what if they don’t?” I pressed, my nerves getting the better of me.

He leaned in and kissed my temple. “Then they don’t matter. You’re the woman I love. That’s enough.”

With that reassurance, we left for the dinner. I carried a homemade cherry pie, a small offering I hoped would show I cared. Mark opened the car door for me, and we set off.

But as we drove, I noticed how tense he was—his knuckles white against the steering wheel, jaw locked tight.

“Are you okay?” I asked gently.

“Yeah,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction. After a moment, he added, “Just… try not to say anything unnecessary, alright?”

I frowned but nodded. “Okay.”

When we arrived, his mother, Erin, answered the door. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“We’ve been waiting,” she said. “I’m Erin, though I assume you already know that.”

“I’m Danica,” I replied, forcing a smile as I held out the pie. “I brought this. Mark said cherry pie was your favorite.”

Erin’s face shifted instantly. The polite smile vanished.

“A pie?” she echoed. “I thought the host handled the food. Or are you implying I can’t bake my own pie?”

I blinked, caught off guard. “No, of course not! I just thought it would be a nice gesture.”

She stared at me, then nodded curtly. “Come in.”

The dinner that followed was tense beyond words. Mark had mentioned his family was quiet during meals, but I thought he was exaggerating. He wasn’t. The only sounds were the clinking of cutlery and the scrape of chairs. Conversation was nonexistent, and every time I tried to speak, it felt like I was interrupting something sacred.

Afterward, I offered to help clear the table. Erin gave a tight nod, muttered a thank you, and led me into the kitchen without another word. Once the dishes were done, we joined Mark’s father, George, in the living room. He barely acknowledged me.

The silence was finally broken when Erin brought up the wedding. Her eyes scanned me critically as she asked, “What kind of dress are you thinking of?”

I hesitated. “Well… I’ll be about five months pregnant by then, so I was thinking of something flowing, maybe empire-waisted.”

Mark groaned softly beside me, burying his face in his hands. My stomach twisted.

“Five months?” Erin repeated, eyes wide with horror.

“Yes,” I said carefully. “We’re expecting.”

The room went cold. Erin gasped like I’d slapped her. “What a disgrace,” she whispered, rising from her seat. “My son… having a child out of wedlock?”

“We’re adults,” I said gently, trying to de-escalate. “We love each other and this baby—”

“Danica, stop talking,” Mark said under his breath.

Erin’s voice grew louder. “You seduced my son! This is shameful!”

“Erin, stop,” George cut in. “She’s pregnant.”

“That’s the problem!” she shouted. “You think this is okay? What will people say? Get out! I don’t want to see either of you again!”

Tears streamed down my face as I stammered, “What did I do?”

“You and your illegitimate child are a stain on this family,” she spat. “Maybe it’s not too late for an abortion!”

I gasped. “What are you saying?”

Mark finally grabbed my hand. “We’re leaving.”

But once we were outside, he turned on me. “What was that?!”

I stared at him in disbelief. “You’re asking me? I didn’t know our baby was something to be ashamed of!”

“I told you not to say anything unnecessary,” he snapped.

“Unnecessary? You mean our child?”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I meant… for them.”

“You told me their opinions didn’t matter.”

“I warned you they were conservative.”

“I’m going back to my apartment,” I said, my voice low and firm.

We still had a month left on the lease. The ride there was silent. When he dropped me off, I didn’t say goodbye.

That night, I sat on the couch, hand over my belly, wondering how something meant to be so joyful had turned into heartbreak.

The next morning, there was a knock at my door. To my shock, it was George.

“I’m here to apologize,” he said. “For Erin. She… gets emotional. And there’s something you should know.”

He told me Erin had also been pregnant when they married. Her shame and judgment were deeply rooted in her own past—her own regrets. “She’s projecting,” he said. “It’s not right, but it’s where it comes from.”

I stared at him, stunned. “Then why treat me like this?”

“Because she never forgave herself,” he said simply.

I thanked him, still unsure what to do next. As I stepped outside to clear my head, I saw Mark standing there—flowers in hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve stood up for you. I was scared, but that’s not an excuse.”

“It hurt,” I whispered.

“I know. I promise, from now on, I’m on your side. Always.”

I nodded slowly. “Thank you.”

We embraced, and for the first time in days, I felt safe again.

His phone buzzed.

“It’s my mom,” he said, glancing at the screen. “She wants to apologize. She asked what your favorite pie is.”

I smiled faintly. “Tell her… I love cherry pie too.”

Mark grinned, and I leaned into him. Maybe this wasn’t the perfect beginning I’d imagined. But it was real. And it was ours.