As soon as I entered my newborn daughter’s room, the happiness I had felt upon bringing her home vanished. Her gorgeous pink nursery was completely demolished, with the cot broken, the walls painted black, and all of the toys missing. But what broke me the most was my mother-in-law’s callous reasoning. As I held my newborn daughter Amelia in my arms, the hospital room was filled with the quiet beep of monitors. Her little fingers closed over mine, and her flawless features amazed me. Button nose, those little feet. She was flawless! Although the C-section had been difficult, it had all been worthwhile to hold her.
With tears in his eyes, my husband Tim said, “She is gorgeous, Rosie.” Too nervous to talk, I nodded. Finally, after months of waiting, our beautiful child arrived. I imagined her nursery at home, complete with white cot, walls painted a soft pink, and an amazing assortment of stuffed animals arranged in the shape of a little army. She called out, “Let me see my grandbaby!” and reached for Amelia. Janet’s smile vanished completely and was replaced with a horrified one as I grudgingly gave her over. Her gaze flickered from Amelia to Tim and back again to the infant.
She repeated this a few times before clearing her throat and staring directly into my eyes as like she wanted to eat me. The problem is that Amelia, our baby, had gorgeous dark skin from birth. Indeed, it was unexpected at first because Tim and I are both Caucasian. But angry? Not even near. Her perfection left us speechless. Once the first shock subsided, we realized that genetics may be unpredictable.
It turns out that Tim’s great-grandfather was Black, a truth that his family had long denied. Everything became sense at once. We considered Amelia to be a priceless reliquary connecting Tim’s long-forgotten family history. But my in-law mother? She was blind to our small miracle. All she perceived was a challenge to her limited understanding of family.
“It is alright, my love. You are immensely loved by your parents. That is the only thing that counts,” I muttered. I tried to slow my heartbeat by softly rocking Amelia. Though I was aware that this was only the start of the storm, I had no idea how severe it would get. I limped through our front door two weeks later, sore and worn out from the demands of postpartum care. My only goal was getting Amelia settled in her nursery so I could perhaps take a nap.
“I can’t wait to show you your room, sweetheart,” I cooed to Amelia as we approached the nursery door. I turned the handle, pushed the door open, and FROZE. My heart PLUMMETED to my stomach.
