When I married Toby, I was lucky—his mother Julia embraced me as her own. During our fertility struggles, she became my rock. She offered emotional support, wellness visits, fertility massages, and even gifted us a new mattress. A month later, I was pregnant. We welcomed our daughter Maddie with joy, and Julia was deeply involved in helping us adjust to parenthood.

But everything shifted one night after a diaper mishap. While cleaning, Toby discovered a small silk bag pinned beneath the mattress—filled with dried herbs. He believed they were fertility-related, possibly part of one of Julia’s old remedies. Disturbed, he burned the mattress. I was torn—grateful Maddie was here, but shaken by the secrecy.

When confronted, Julia confessed she had hoped the herbs would help and meant no harm. “If it worked, I thought you wouldn’t care how,” she said tearfully. Her sincerity was clear, but so was our hurt.

Toby asked for transparency moving forward, and Julia agreed. While the mystery left a lingering unease, Maddie was ours—no matter what led to her arrival.

I still don’t know if herbs helped us conceive. But I do know that love, trust, and communication matter more than old traditions kept in the dark.