Mark and I had been together for a year when he proposed—right after we found out I was pregnant. It wasn’t a fairy-tale moment, but it was genuine and full of love. The pregnancy wasn’t planned, but we were excited and ready to face parenthood together.
That night, we were having dinner with his parents, and I was anxious. Mark had always described them as strict and traditional, which made me feel like I was walking into an interview. I wanted to make a good impression and tried on countless outfits before settling on the first one I picked.
At his parents’ home, his mother Erin greeted us with cold politeness. I offered a homemade cherry pie, but instead of gratitude, she questioned whether I thought she couldn’t bake her own. Dinner was quiet and tense, and conversation afterward only worsened things. Erin criticized our public affection and judged my wedding dress choice. When I mentioned being five months pregnant by the wedding, her reaction was explosive—calling me disgraceful, suggesting an abortion, and ultimately kicking us out.
Mark didn’t defend me, and outside, we argued. Hurt and frustrated, I decided to stay at my old apartment. That night, I cried, devastated that he hadn’t stood up for me or our child.
The next morning, Mark’s father, George, visited to apologize. He revealed that Erin had been pregnant with Mark before marriage too—something she had always been ashamed of. Her harshness toward me came from unresolved guilt.
Later, as I was about to return to Mark, I found him outside with flowers. He apologized sincerely for not standing by me and promised to always support me. I forgave him.
Then, his phone rang—it was Erin. She wanted to apologize and asked about my favorite pie.
I smiled. “Cherry,” I told Mark. Maybe there was hope after all.
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