When I initially met Callum, I told myself to take things slowly. He looked at me like I was amazing, listened to me, and was nice. We dated for more than two years before I got pregnant. He asked her to marry him on a rainy Tuesday night with a diamond that was way too expensive for him, but it wasn’t planned.
I said yes. I believed in us, not because I felt like I had to with our small family.
But his family, yeah, they never believed in me.
When I initially met his mother, she smiled politely and asked, “So, where are you from?” She meant it as a test, but not in the usual way. It seemed like I was attempting to get into something I shouldn’t have been.
For our wedding, she wore black. Black, in a literal sense. She just smiled and said, “Every union is a loss of some kind, right?” when someone made a joke about them being funeral clothes.
People don’t call me his wife. People call me “the girl he got pregnant,” as if I were a temporary mistake that would never go away. Our son is over three years old, and his mom still hasn’t said my name. Not once.
Callum sees. I’m sure he does. But he always says, “That’s just how she is.” Don’t get mad over it.
Don’t take it personally?
When his sister made a “joke” about how my son’s hair were too “wild” for school pictures, I almost left. But I didn’t. I stayed. I smiled. For Callum. I smiled for our dear child.
But something happened over the weekend. I realised that I might have tried too hard to fit in with individuals who would never accept me.
I heard something in their kitchen that they didn’t want me to hear.
We went to his parents’ place for his father’s birthday. While Callum helped his dad put up the same old Auburn football banner in the yard, I was at the sink cleaning sippy cups.
Voices from the next room came through: his mother, his sister Helena, and Aunt Margie. I wasn’t even trying to hear. In short, they were loud.
“I still think he freaked out,” Helena said. Would he have married her if he hadn’t gotten her pregnant?
His mother then said, “I don’t think so.” He was going through a rebellious time in his life. You know how he acts when he tries to make a point.
“And now he’s stuck,” Aunt Margie said with a soft laugh. It’s a horrible thing. But he did what he had to do.
My hand froze on the sponge.
A time of rebellion? Like I was a test for a lifestyle?
I can’t even remember leaving the kitchen. I don’t know much else, but I sat in the car for about twenty minutes, trying not to cry, while my son watched Cocomelon in the backseat with crackers on his lap.
That night, I didn’t tell Callum about it. I wanted to. I almost did.
But before I got into another fight with him about his family, I needed to know how I really felt. We’ve fought a lot, and he always ends up saying, “But they’re my family.” What do you want me to do?
This time I knew exactly what I wanted.
Two days later, I asked Callum to meet me for coffee at a tiny café near the park. Just us. Don’t let anything get in the way.
I told him all I had heard. I said everything I had heard word for word.
He just sat there with his jaw clinched, staring into his cup.
He then looked up and said something that I will always remember:
“I’ve let them get away with this for too long. And I think I let it happen in secret because I didn’t want to lose either side. But I’ve already started to lose you.
That broke my heart. I had, after all, been slipping away. I smiled back. putting up with pain to avoid making a choice.
And to be honest? It didn’t treat us fairly.
That night, Callum called his mum. I didn’t hear the whole conversation, but I did hear some of it:
“She’s my wife.” No, Mom, listen to me: you can’t keep treating her like an idiot. If you can’t respect her, we won’t come to see you anymore.
That was a surprise. I didn’t do that, though.
And what do you know? We haven’t been back since then.
It has been four months.
It felt unusual at first to forego the usual Sunday dinners. But with time, things changed. Callum got lighter. We felt safer at home. What about our boy? He has been doing so well that he doesn’t even ask about Nana anymore.
Last week, Helena texted me out of the blue.
“I didn’t know how much our words were hurting you,” she said. I’m sorry.
I still haven’t answered. I don’t feel angry, but healing takes time. Also, forgiving someone doesn’t mean forgetting what they did.
This is what I’ve found out:
People you want to like you won’t always like you. That’s OK. You don’t have to change who you are to fit their broken template.
The most important thing is who is there for you when things become tough and if they are willing to stand up to the people who are making things worse.
Callum showed me that he cared for me. To get my point across, I finally stopped going to locations where I didn’t feel welcome.
So take a deep breath if you’re out there trying to be “enough” for those who are continuously changing the rules. You are enough. And you deserve serenity instead of accolades.
❤️