My father, who adored his granddaughter, still held onto a sliver of hope and nodded. "Alright, let's ask Marcia."
But who could have predicted what happened next? The moment Marcia heard the question, she burst into tears and threw herself into her grandmother's arms.
"No, no, no! I don't want Mommy's last name! Then Daddy and I won't be family anymore! The other kids will call me a bastard!"
The air froze.
My daughter was only seven years old. There was no way she'd come up with something like that on her own.
Unless someone had deliberately coached her.
The realization made my parents' faces turn even darker.
They never imagined the granddaughter they'd showered with love would reject them so completely.
My mother, worried that my emotional state would affect my milk supply, forced herself to stay calm. "Let's drop it for now. We'll figure it out later. Greta, just focus on your recovery."
Irvin visibly relaxed. "Yes, yes, Mom's right. No matter whose name the baby takes, he's still mine and Greta's child!"
My parents said nothing.
That afternoon, they left, saying the factory needed them.
The moment they were gone, my mother-in-law started in with her snide remarks.
"Hmph! Couldn't get out of here fast enough! The second they heard the grandson wasn't changing his name—no advantage to squeeze out—they bolted!"
My husband gave an awkward laugh and made a half-hearted attempt. "Mom, don't say that. Greta's parents really are busy with the factory."
I couldn't take it anymore and fired back:
"They sure are busy! After all, everything this family eats, uses, and lives in comes from my parents' money!"
My mother-in-law's face flushed crimson, her neck mottling with rage at being called out.
She was about to explode when the maternity nurse came over to remind me it was time to breastfeed.
I turned and lay down without a second glance, my voice ice-cold.
"Can't feed. Too angry. My milk's blocked."
She tried to charge over to argue, but Irvin pulled her out of the room.
Irvin and I had married for love.
Back then, when my friends found out that I—an only daughter from a wealthy Jiangnan family—was actually going to marry into some rural inland village, their jaws nearly hit the floor.
They took turns trying to talk sense into me, saying that even if I insisted on marrying him, he should at least take my family name.
But the word "uxorilocal" was something Irvin couldn't bear to hear.