When My Mother in Law Called My Adopted Children ‘Fake’ — And The Powerful Lesson She Learned

Our $30,000 fertility journey ended in heartbreak, but adoption gave us the family we dreamed of. Then my mother-in-law’s cruel words threatened everything we built.

After spending $30,000 on fertility treatments, I found myself facing a painful truth: I couldn’t have biological children. It’s a sentence I learned to deliver without emotion—to doctors, friends, and eventually, to myself.

“Should we try one more time?” my husband Andrew would ask after each failed attempt.

I’d simply remove my shoes and retreat into silence, sometimes heading to the kitchen to peel apples we’d never eat, just to hear something gentle in a world that felt increasingly harsh.

The Journey to Motherhood

Andrew and I had built almost a decade of life together. He wasn’t the romantic hero from novels, but he was the man who unfailingly held my coat and prepared my favorite tea. Not once did he blame me for our situation, though I blamed myself endlessly.

“Maybe I’m the reason his family line stops here,” I thought during sleepless nights.

My mother-in-law Gloria had her own unique way of “comforting” me: “You still have time,” she’d say with practiced sweetness. “I had Andrew at thirty-eight. It’s still possible. You just need more faith. And perhaps… fewer chemicals in your system.”

That was classic Gloria—criticism disguised as concern.

“She means well,” Andrew would insist later. “She’s from a different generation.”

“No. She doesn’t believe I’m a complete woman if I haven’t given birth,” I’d counter.

He’d respond with silent hugs that somehow made everything worse. Those embraces said, “Let’s drop this conversation.”

The Adoption Decision

One evening, scrolling through social media, I found myself transfixed by a video of a little girl calling her adoptive mother “Mommy” for the first time. The woman’s tears matched my own.

“What if we… adopt?” I asked Andrew tentatively.

He paused, remote control suspended mid-air. “Are you serious?”

When I nodded, he replied, “I’m open to it. But if we do this… let’s adopt two children. So they’ll always have each other.”

I laughed through my tears. “Two? We can’t even pack for weekend getaways without arguing.”

“That’s different,” he said softly. “We didn’t have a reason to be our best selves then.”

His words struck deep.

The Adoption Process

The adoption journey was extensive and demanding. We immersed ourselves in childhood trauma education, learning more than some psychology students might in several courses.

The adoption counselors emphasized repeatedly: “Don’t expect immediate gratitude. These children won’t run into your arms. They’ve learned not to trust adults.”

After seven months of preparation, paperwork, and waiting, we received the call that would change everything.

“We have two children—not biologically related but emotionally inseparable. A girl and a boy from different backgrounds who cling to each other like lifelines. Separating them would devastate them both.”

When we met them, Amara had beautiful brown eyes and deep ebony skin. Liam, with distinct Asian features, stood protectively behind her, clutching a worn teddy bear like armor.

There was no instant magic. No tears of joy. Just quiet uncertainty on both sides.

“Hi. I’m Hannah,” I said softly. “May I sit here beside you?”

That simple moment became our beginning.

We formalized the adoption two days later and shared photos with our families. Everyone responded with congratulations and warm wishes.

Everyone except Gloria.

The Reality of Adoption

Our early days together weren’t the heartwarming montage you see in movies. For weeks, I never heard the word “Mom.” Instead, I heard doors slam. I heard Liam hurling toys against walls until they shattered. I heard Amara’s muffled sobs beneath her blankets at night.

Sometimes I simply sat silently near her, understanding she needed presence, not platitudes.

One afternoon, Liam collapsed on the sidewalk in full meltdown. Passersby stopped and stared, clearly judging me as an incompetent mother.

“What are you doing?” a woman demanded.

“Waiting until he finishes expressing his feelings,” I replied calmly.

She walked away with visible disapproval, but I remained seated beside my son who was learning to process overwhelming emotions. I didn’t force physical contact. I didn’t raise my voice. I simply stayed.

“Mom, why aren’t you angry at me?” he asked after another emotional storm.

“Because I understand you’re hurting inside.”

He looked at me then as if truly seeing me for the first time.

Small Steps Forward

Two weeks into our new family life, we began finding our rhythm. Liam started whispering stories to his teddy bear. Amara allowed me to braid her hair—the result was uneven and clumsy, but she sat patiently through it, which felt like an enormous victory.

“I want to host a small celebration for the children,” I told Andrew one evening.

“Don’t you think it’s premature? They’re still adjusting to us.”

“Exactly why we need this,” I explained. “To show them they belong.”

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