He Never Chose Us

The GPS said I'd arrived, but this couldn't be right.

I stared at the room number on the door. D12. Not D03, the luxury postpartum suite my parents had spent $5000 on. This was a standard single room, barely bigger than a hospital room.

"Excuse me," I called to a nurse walking by, bouncing Sofia gently as she started to fuss. "I think there's been a mistake. I'm Elena Johnson, and I'm supposed to be in suite D03?"

The nurse checked her tablet, frowning. "Let me see... Mrs. Johnson, yes, but it shows here that your reservation was changed to room D12. Your husband came in last week and modified the booking."

My stomach dropped. "My husband changed it?"

"Yes, he said there were family circumstances and requested two separate rooms instead of the suite. Room D12 for you, and D15 for..." she scrolled down, "Chloe Martinez."

Chloe. My mother-in-law's favorite person in the world. My husband's brother's girlfriend, who had just given birth.

"Where is D15?" I asked, though part of me already knew.

"Down the hall, dear. The corner suite with the garden view."

My corner suite. The one with the private bathroom with the jetted tub. The one with the kitchenette where my mom was supposed to cook her special recovery soup for me.

I walked down the hallway on unsteady legs, still sore from delivery three days ago. Sofia made little sleeping sounds against my chest, completely unaware that her world was already being carved up and given away.

The door to D15 was cracked open. I could hear voices inside.

"...look at those strong little hands." That was Patricia's voice, sickeningly sweet. My mother-in-law, who barely acknowledged Sofia's existence.

I pushed the door open.

Chloe was propped up in the king-sized bed, looking like a magazine cover even though she'd given birth just two days ago. Her long dark hair was perfectly styled, and she was wearing a silk robe I'd never seen before. Patricia sat beside her, feeding her soup from a thermos I recognized.

My mom's thermos. The one with the traditional Mexican recovery broth my mother had spent hours making for me.

A tiny baby boy slept in the premium bassinet that was supposed to be Sofia's.

"Elena!" Patricia looked up, not even trying to look guilty. "Perfect timing. I was just telling Chloe how blessed we are to finally have a grandson in the family."

Finally. As if Sofia didn't count.

"That's my soup," I said, staring at the thermos. My voice came out smaller than I'd intended.

"Oh, this?" Patricia held up the thermos like she'd never seen it before. "Carmen dropped it off earlier. I thought it would be perfect for Chloe since she just gave us a healthy grandson. You know how new mothers with boys need extra care."

New mothers who've given us boys. The words hit like a slap.

I looked around the room and my chest tightened. The organic cotton baby blankets I'd picked out for Sofia were folded neatly on the dresser. The specialized bottle sterilizer my parents had bought was plugged in by the window. Even the handmade mobile from my college roommate hung above the bassinet where Chloe's son slept.

"Where are Sofia's things?" I asked.

"Oh, those." Patricia waved her hand dismissively. "I moved them to your room. Sofia's still so little, she won't even notice what blanket she's using. But a grandson needs the best from the start."

Chloe smiled at me sweetly. "I hope you don't mind, Elena. Patricia said family shares everything."

"Besides," Patricia continued, standing up and smoothing down her shirt, "you don't really need all this luxury. With your leg and all, you won't be able to take advantage of the garden access anyway. And honestly, Chloe photographs so much better in this lighting. She's given us a Johnson heir."

My leg. She actually said that. About my scar from the car accident three years ago. The accident where my husband Caleb had been my hero, taking care of me every day during recovery.

I felt heat rising in my face. "Patricia, this suite was paid for by my parents. For me and Sofia."

"And now it's being used for the right purpose," she replied, like I was being unreasonable. "Chloe just gave us a grandson. This is where he belongs."

The first Johnson grandson. Because Sofia was just a worthless daughter.

I heard footsteps behind me and turned to see Caleb walking in, carrying coffee cups from the café downstairs. My husband looked pale when he saw me, his blue eyes filled with something that might have been guilt.

"Elena! You're here early." He set the coffee down quickly. "I was going to explain—"

"Explain what?" I shifted Sofia to my other arm. She was getting heavier, and my incision was starting to ache. "Explain why you gave away our room? Explain why Sofia's things are being used by someone else?"

"It's not like that." Caleb ran his hand through his hair, a nervous habit I usually found endearing. Today it just annoyed me. "Mom called and said Chloe and the baby needed the extra space, and I thought, we're all family, right? What's the difference which room we're in?"

"The difference is that my parents paid for this room. For their daughter and granddaughter."

"Elena, please." His voice dropped lower, like he was trying to calm down a hysterical woman. "Can we talk about this privately? You're getting upset over nothing."

Nothing. Sofia's first week of life was nothing.

Patricia picked up her phone from the bedside table. "Actually, this is perfect timing for a photo. Chloe, hold your beautiful boy up. The lighting is gorgeous right now."

I watched her snap several pictures of Chloe in my bed, with my things, holding her son while drinking from my mother's thermos. Then she started typing on her phone.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Just posting about what a wonderful daughter-in-law I have," Patricia said without looking up. "So grateful for family who understands what really matters - giving us grandsons."

She turned the phone toward me. The Instagram post was already live. The caption read: "So blessed to care for my sweet daughter-in-law and precious grandson during their recovery. Family means everything! 💕 #blessed #family #newgrandma #babyboyJohnson"

The photo showed Patricia and Chloe in the luxury suite, all smiles and maternal bonding, with the baby boy prominently featured. You'd never know I existed.

You'd never know Sofia existed.

I stared at the screen, feeling something cold settle in my chest. This wasn't a mistake or a misunderstanding. This was deliberate. Calculated.

And Caleb was part of it.

"I need to feed Sofia," I said quietly.

"Of course, dear," Patricia said, already turning back to Chloe and the baby. "The standard rooms have everything you need for basic care."

Basic care. For the granddaughter she'd been pretending to be excited about for nine months.

I walked out of the room, my legs shaking. In the hallway, I could hear Patricia's voice drifting through the open door.

"Don't worry about this, sweetheart. She's always been a bit dramatic. Probably the hormones. What matters is that you've given us a beautiful grandson."

Sofia started crying as we reached D12, like she could sense my distress. I sat down heavily on the narrow bed and looked around the bare room. No kitchenette. No garden view. No specialized baby equipment.

Just basic care. Like Patricia said.

I unlocked my phone and looked at that Instagram post again. Fifty-eight likes already. Comments from Patricia's friends about what a "devoted mother-in-law" she was and how "handsome" the baby boy looked.

Not one mention of me.

Not one mention of Sofia.

We'd been erased from our own story.