**Diary Entry**
“Who’s supposed to be watching the little ones? Who let them pinch the cheese? I was saving it for Mum!” my sister blurted out.
In our family, the birth of boys was always celebrated more than girls. We live in England, and for some reason, girls were treated with a bit of bias—that’s just how my parents raised us. I have a younger brother and sister, and I noticed how differently relatives treated us.
When my sister was born, Dad was utterly disappointed. Even though the scan had predicted a girl, he held out hope until the last moment that the doctors were wrong. He only accepted it at the hospital. But when Mum fell pregnant with my brother, Dad was over the moon! Relatives congratulated them with special warmth, everyone was thrilled.
“A girl? She’ll just marry and leave the nest. But a son—he’ll carry on the family name!” Dad would say.
The difference in upbringing was stark. After my brother was born, he wasn’t given chores, never scolded for bad grades or mischief. Not that my sister and I were treated badly, but we felt the distinction. My brother was practically doted on.
It made me believe all families preferred sons. With that mindset, I got married. My husband and I were deeply in love, completely trusting. When he said he dreamed of having a son, I wasn’t surprised—it seemed only natural. When I found out I was pregnant, I too hoped for a boy. But at the scan, the doctor smiled and said we were having a girl. My heart sank. How would I tell my husband? I feared he’d rage, pack his things, and leave.
I don’t know why I thought that—my parents hadn’t split after having me and my sister. Still, I was devastated. The stress landed me in hospital with the threat of a miscarriage. My husband was away, but when he found out, he came straight to me.
He didn’t know the scan results yet, and I had no idea how to break the news since he’d wanted a son. But he didn’t ask about the baby’s gender—just fussed over me, checked on my health, promised to bring treats, begged me not to worry.
After he left, I cried for ages. A nurse came to calm me down, and I confessed my fears. Somehow, she understood my sobbing and said I should focus on the baby, not my husband.
“Plenty of men in the world. Just focus on carrying your daughter safely—she won’t thrive if you’re stressed,” she told me.
The next morning, she scolded my husband, thinking he already knew about the baby’s gender and had upset me. He walked into my room baffled, asking where I’d gotten such silly ideas. I admitted everything. He peered at me like I’d lost the plot and said it didn’t matter, boy or girl—just stop overthinking.
I tried to let go of my fears, but sometimes I wondered if he was just sparing my feelings. Then, when I gave birth to our daughter and saw his face—the tears—I knew his joy was real. Looking back, I laugh at my old worries. Thank goodness for that nurse setting me straight, or I’d have worked myself into a panic long before the birth.
