When I first met Kirill, I told myself to take my time. He was sweet, he listened to me, and he looked at me like I was made of magic. We dated for almost two years before I got pregnant. It wasn’t planned, but he was there for me – proposing on a rainy Tuesday night with a ring that seemed too expensive for his budget.
I said yes. Not because I felt pressured, but because I believed in us. In our little family.
But his family…oh, they never believed in me.
When I first met his mum, she gave me that same smile with her lips pressed together and asked: ‘So where are you actually from?’ Not in the usual tone of voice – it sounded like an interrogation. Like I was trying to sneak in where I didn’t belong.
She wore black to our wedding. Literally black. When someone jokingly asked if it was a mourning outfit, she just smiled and said: ‘Any union is a loss in a way, isn’t it?’
They don’t call me his wife. They say ‘the girl who got him pregnant,’ as if I’m some temporary mistake that won’t go away. Even now, when our son is almost three, his mum has never once said my name. Not once.
Cyril sees it. I know he does. But he always says, “Well, that’s just the way she is. Don’t take it personally.”
Don’t take it personally?
When his sister ‘joked’ that my son’s curls were too ‘dishevelled’ for school pictures, I almost left. But I didn’t. I stayed. I smiled. For Cyril. For our baby.
But last weekend, something happened. Something that made me realise that I may have tried too hard to be liked by people who would never accept me.
Because I overheard something in their kitchen – something they never intended for my ears.
We were at his parents’ house for his dad’s birthday party. I was washing drinkers at the sink while Kirill helped his father hang that old Spartacus pennant in the backyard.
Voices came from the next room-his mother, his sister Elena, and Aunt Margarita. I didn’t even try to eavesdrop. They were just talking loudly.
Elena said: “I still think he just panicked. I mean, if he hadn’t knocked her up, would he really have married her?”
Then his mum – his mum – replied, “I doubt it. He was going through this rebellious period back then. You know how he acts when he wants to prove something.”
‘And now he’s stuck,’ Aunt Marguerite added, laughing softly. – Poor little chap. But he made this mess himself.”
My hand froze with the sponge.
A rebellious period? Like I was some kind of experiment?
I don’t even remember leaving the kitchen. All I know is that I sat in the car for almost twenty minutes trying not to cry because my son was sitting in the backseat with a biscuit in his lap watching Cocomelon.
I didn’t tell Cyril that night. I wanted to. I almost did.
But I needed to be sure of my feelings before I dragged him into another scandal about his family. We’d had so many already-and they always ended with him saying, “But it’s my family. What do you want me to do?”
This time I knew exactly what I wanted.
Two days later, I invited Kirill for coffee at a little place by the park. Just us. No distractions.
I told him everything I’d heard. Word for word.
And he just sat there, jaw clenched and staring into his cup.
Then he looked up and said something I’ll never forget:
“I’ve let them behave like this for too long. And I think, deep down, I let it happen because I didn’t want to lose either party. But I was already losing you.”
That broke me. Because yes – I was slipping away. Smiling through the comments. Swallowed the pain so he wouldn’t have to choose.
And frankly, it wasn’t fair to either of us.
That same night, Cyril called his mum. I couldn’t hear the whole conversation, but I caught bits and pieces:
‘She’s my wife… No, Mum, listen – you can’t keep treating her like a mistake… If you can’t respect her, we’re not coming over again.’
I didn’t expect that. I really didn’t.
And you know what? We haven’t been there since.
It’s been four months.
At first it was strange to do without the usual Sunday dinners. But slowly something changed. Kirill became lighter. Our house became safer. And our son? He’s fine – he doesn’t even ask about his grandmother anymore.
Last week, Elena wrote to me out of the blue.
She wrote: “I didn’t realise how deeply our words hurt you. I’m sorry.”
I haven’t responded yet. Not because I’m embittered, but because healing has no deadline. And forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting.
Here’s what I’ve learnt:
Sometimes the people you want to like you won’t like you. And that’s okay. You don’t have to wiggle and break yourself to fit into their curvy mould.
The most important thing is who stands by you when the going gets tough, and whether they’re willing to point out those who make your life even harder.
Cyril showed me that he was ready. And I finally stopped showing up where I wasn’t welcome just to prove something.
So if you’re trying to be ‘good enough’ for people who are constantly changing the rules – breathe. You are enough. And you deserve peace, not approval.
If this story resonated with your soul, share it with someone who needs this reminder.
And don’t forget to give it a like – it will help more people see it.
