MY HUSBANDS FAMILY STILL CALLS ME THE GIRL HE GOT PREGNANT, AND I AM HIS WIFE

When I first met Callum, I promised myself to take things slowly. But there was something about him—his kindness, the way he listened, the way his eyes lit up when he looked at me. He made me feel like I wasn’t just a person, but a story worth reading.

Two years into dating, life threw us a curveball: I got pregnant. It wasn’t planned, but Callum didn’t run. Instead, on a rainy Tuesday night, he knelt on our creaky apartment floor with a ring I knew he couldn’t really afford and asked me to marry him. I said yes—not because of the baby, not because of pressure, but because I believed in us. I believed in the little family we were building.

But his family? They never believed in me.

The first time I met his mother, she smiled at me the way people smile when they’ve already made up their minds. Then came the question: “So, where exactly are you from?” Not curious. Not kind. It was a test, like she needed to remind me I didn’t belong at her tabl

Her message was clearer at our wedding. While I wore white, she wore black. When a guest teased her about mourning at a wedding, she didn’t even flinch. “Every union is a loss of some kind,” she said.

From then on, I wasn’t Callum’s wife. To them, I became “the girl he got pregnant.” Never my name. Never my role as his partner. Just a label, whispered like a scarlet letter.

Even after our son was born—almost three years ago now—they still wouldn’t soften. His mother has never called me by name. His sister Helena once joked about my son’s curls being too “wild” for school pictures. I wanted to scream, to walk out, but I stayed. For Callum. For our child.

Every time I told Callum how much it hurt, he’d sigh and say, “That’s just how she is. Don’t take it personally.”

But I did take it personally. How could I not?

Then came the day everything cracked.

We were at his parents’ house for his father’s birthday. I was in the kitchen, washing our son’s sippy cups. Callum was outside helping his dad with that old Auburn football banner he hangs every year. And that’s when I heard it.

His mom, Helena, and Aunt Margie were talking in the next room.

Helena said, “I still think he panicked. If he hadn’t gotten her pregnant, would he really have married her?”

His mom replied, “I doubt it. He was in that rebellious phase, always trying to prove a point.”

Then Aunt Margie added, laughing, “Poor boy. But he made his bed.”

I froze, my hand still gripping the sponge. They didn’t just see me as a mistake—they saw my marriage, my family, as a burden Callum had to carry

I walked out without saying a word, sat in the car for twenty minutes while my son munched crackers in the back seat, and swallowed the lump in my throat so he wouldn’t see me cry.