What’s the most entitled thing a family member has demanded from you?
The Battle for the First Grandchild
After seven months of failed attempts, my husband Kyle and I announced that we were finally pregnant. Everyone erupted with cheers except for my sister Jacqueline, who smashed her wine glass against the marble counter.
“How dare you?” she shrieked. “You know how long I’ve been trying for a baby. I deserve to be the first.” Mom tried to tell her 19-year-olds aren’t ready for a baby, but Jacqueline refused to back down. She grabbed her purse, then dramatically stormed out, yelling that I better abort my baby within one week, or else she’s getting the police involved.
The next morning, she showed up at our door with printed pages from abortion clinics, shoving them into Kyle’s chest while he was still in his boxers.
She announced to our entire cul-de-sac,
“I made appointments for her at three different places,” “She just needs to pick one.” When Kyle tore up the papers, she called the whole family demanding an emergency intervention. That Sunday, 23 relatives crammed into mom’s living room while Jacqueline stood at the fireplace like she was delivering a TED talk on why I was destroying her life by having a baby first. She actually had a PowerPoint.
Our uncle Jeffrey, who’s a lawyer, finally told her there’s no legal precedent for forcing someone to abort because you want to be pregnant first. She pointed at me with tears streaming down her face and said,
“If I didn’t terminate by Monday, she’d never speak to any of us again.” But we called her bluff and all 23 of us told her,
“See you, Felicia.” She actually left sobbing. And we didn’t hear from her for a long time.
And then, seven months into my pregnancy, we were having our baby shower when the door flew open. It was Jacqueline. She walked in with her hand on a massive belly, wearing a shirt that said first grandchild loading. Everyone went silent.
Mom dropped her cake knife.
“Surprise!” “I’m almost due,” she announced, spinning around so everyone could see. “I got pregnant right after that horrible meeting where you all betrayed me. I’m 10 weeks away from giving birth.” Nobody was impressed. And when I decided to screw with her and mentioned my due date that was 8 weeks weeks away, her face turned deep red with anger.
She grabbed my arm and whispered the dates didn’t matter because she’d make sure hers came first, then left before anyone could respond. My mom called me that Tuesday, balling her eyes out. She’d found out from Jacqueline’s roommate that Jacqueline had been taking black market labor induction substances she’d bought from some website in Romania, risking her baby’s life to deliver before me.
Now Jacqueline was in the ICU, but not because of the substances. Turns out Jacqueline had found some girl on Craigslist whose mother used to be a midwife in the Philippines and paid this girl to perform a C-section in her living room. The girl kept refusing, saying Jacqueline was only 31 weeks.
But my sister threatened to do it herself with kitchen knives if she didn’t help. They used box cutters sterilized with vodka. Jacqueline lost so much blood that her neighbor saw it seeping under the apartment door. The baby somehow came out alive, but he was purple and barely breathing. They both nearly died in the ambulance.
The baby went straight to the NICU on a ventilator, and Jacqueline needed a full hysterectomy. She’d never have another child. When she came to, the first thing she did was call me from her hospital bed.
“You did this,” she gasped through the oxygen mask. “My baby is dying because you couldn’t wait until me to have a child.” The craziest part about all this is now that she was fighting for life.
Suddenly, the family was split down the middle. One half thought she’d lost her mind, but the other actually thought I should have delayed announcing my pregnancy to spare her feelings. One aunt even said I should have just aborted, but everyone agreed on one thing. We all needed to be there for the sick baby.
