I was devastated when my husband handed his mother our baby’s nursery because she was “lonely and depressed.” I then heard what my mother-in-law had actually been preparing behind my back that night as I passed the nursery. I never realized how clever she was.
My spouse and I have been immersed in our baby’s nursery for the last two months, as if it were a second heartbeat. This gentle, earthy sage green is what I used to paint the walls. These adorable little clouds that appeared to be hovering just above the cot were also hand-stenciled by myself.
Even though my back hurt, I wanted our child to sleep beneath something lovely. Evan started crying when we completed assembling the crib.
A whisper, “Our little family,” he said.
I ought to have captured the moment on tape. for proof.
One Thursday, as I was at the clinic for my usual check-up, my phone chimed. Evan sent the following text:
“Can we talk when you get home? Mom’s not doing great.”
Evan was pacing our kitchen like an animal in a cage when I got home.
He began, “Okay, so here’s the thing,” without looking at her. “Mom called Dr. Wills. She’s been feeling lonely and depressed. He strongly recommended that she stay close to family for a while.”
I put my handbag down. “How close?”
His hands fumbled with his phone, keys, and even the salt shaker as he said, “Well, that’s what I wanted to talk about.” “I thought maybe she could use the nursery temporarily. Just until she stabilizes.”
“Come again?”
He said, “Think about it logically,” growing more assured of his ignorance. “Babies don’t sleep in cribs for months anyway. We can put a bassinet in our room. Mom needs comfort, and she’d be right here if we needed help.”
“You want to put your mother in OUR baby’s room?”
“Temporarily! She’s already… here.”
With trembling hands, I turned the handle of the nursery door as I passed him along the hall.
Where our rocking rocker had been, there was a queen-size bed. Like a cancer, my MIL Lydia’s flowered comforter spread across it. Squatting on the changing table was her jewelry box. She put her phone to her ear and looked up from unpacking.
She hung up smiling and said, “Oh, she’s here! Gotta go, Susan.” “Anna! Don’t you love what we’ve done with the space?”
The words “Where’s the crib, Lydia?” escaped my throat.
“Evan moved it to the corner for now. Don’t worry, sweetie. I won’t be in your way.”
“Oh, and by the way, those clouds are cute, but a bit childish for a guest room, don’t you think?” she said. “I was telling my friend Susan we might want to consider a more mature palette.”
I said, “It’s not a guest room,” while brewing coffee. “It’s temporary.”
She touched my arm and said, “Of course, dear.” “We’ll see how things go.”
Evan was hovering in the doorway like a remorseful child as I turned around.
“When did this happen?”
He cleared his throat. “This afternoon. While you were at Dr. Murphy’s office.”
My prenatal visit. He had missed it as Lydia had asked him to “check a weird noise in her car.”
“You moved our baby’s furniture while I was getting checked for preeclampsia. You could’ve used the guest room.”
“Anna, please try to understand. The guest room is a bit uncomfortable for mom and she…”
I shoved past his and Lydia’s contented grin and barged into our bedroom, saying, “I understand perfectly.”
He closed the door behind him. “She’s struggling. When she cried on the phone, I couldn’t just…”
“I’m eight months pregnant, Evan. I can barely tie my shoes. I pee every 20 minutes. I need that room to be ready.”
“We have time.”
“No, Evan. You have time. I have a human being about to claw his way out of my body.”
He took up a lot of space on our bed. “It’s temporary. Just for a few months until she gets back on her feet.”
I gazed at the guy I had married, who had vowed to prioritize our family.
“Fine. But I’m not pretending to be happy about it.”
Our son woke me up at around ten o’clock that night, as if he knew someone had broken into his room. My lower back need a heating pad.
Lydia’s voice floated through the cracked nursery door as I struggled with the linen pile: “You should have seen her face when she walked in! Like someone had died!”
The heating pad gripped my chest as I froze.
“No, no, it was easier than I thought. I’m a good actress, you know? I told Evan that Dr. Wills said I was showing signs of depression. Poor boy practically begged me to move in! Men are so simple when you know which buttons to push. His wife has no idea about my next step.”
My heart pounded.
“The best part? She can’t say anything without looking heartless. What kind of daughter-in-law kicks out a depressed mother-in-law? I’ve got months before that baby comes, and by then, I’ll be so established here they’ll forget whose house this was first.”
Heat flooded my face as I placed my back against the hallway wall.
“Oh, trust me, Susan. I’ve been planning this for months. The minute she fell pregnant, I knew I had to act fast. Once grandchildren arrive, old mothers become afterthoughts. But not this mother. Never!”
I was having trouble breathing. The borders of my vision became blurry.
“The doctor thing was genius, right? I called his office and asked some hypothetical questions about seasonal depression. I took those talking points straight to Evan. Sometimes I amaze myself!”
Shaken, I retreated from the door. Evan appeared calm and oblivious as he read on his tablet in our bedroom.
I continued, “I need to tell you something,” as I sat on the edge of the bed.
He noticed my reaction and looked up. “What’s wrong?”
“Your mother just confessed to lying about her depression. I heard her on the phone.”
“That’s not… she wouldn’t.”
“She called Dr. Wills’ office to discuss about her fake depression. She planned this whole thing. She’s been planning it for a long time.”
“Anna, that’s impossible. You must have misheard…”
“She said, and I quote, ‘I’ve got months before that baby comes, and by then I’ll be so established they’ll forget whose house this was first.’”
Evan put his tablet down. “Mom gets dramatic when she talks to her friend. They gossip. She probably just…”
“She conned you, Evan. She made up a medical emergency to steal our baby’s room.”
“Honey, look, even if she exaggerated, she’s still struggling. We can’t just throw her out. She’s my mother.”
I gazed at him. “Your pregnant wife tells you she’s been manipulated, and your response is to defend the manipulator.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then what are you doing?”
He didn’t respond.
I gave Aunt Carla, my mother’s sister, a call early the following morning. She has the voice of a choir director and the demeanor of a former sheriff. She arrived as if she had been waiting her entire life for this opportunity.
She remarked, “We need proof,” and produced a stylish baby monitor that had audio recording. “She wants to play games? Let’s press record.”
Before Lydia came back from her latte break in the garden, we placed it on the nursery bookshelf.
Telling her, “This feels sneaky,”
“Honey,” she added, changing the perspective, “sometimes the truth needs a little help getting heard.”
Evan worked late that night, so I watched the monitor feed from our bedroom. Lydia appeared to be as at ease as a cat in the sun as she plopped down on the bed with her phone.
As she looked at her nails, she remarked, “The nursery plan is working perfectly,” “Evan feels so guilty about my ‘depression’ that he’s bending over backward. I’ve got him convinced that helping me is good practice for being a father.”
I tightened my jaw.
“You should see Anna trying to be supportive. It’s killing her, but she can’t complain without looking selfish. I’m going to redecorate this room piece by piece, starting with those ridiculous clouds.”
“Tomorrow I’m suggesting we convert the basement into a real nursery,” Lydia said. “For ‘safety reasons.’ Babies need climate control, and this room has the best heating system in the house.”
It was that. I texted Aunt Carla the video after downloading it.
“We’re going to therapy,” I informed Evan over breakfast the following day.
“What?”
“Couples therapy. Today. I already made an appointment.”
“Anna, I think you’re overreacting…”
“Your other option is explaining to my father why his pregnant daughter is staying at his house.”
Evan was acquainted with my father. He was aware that he would not have a good conversation.
Dr. Patterson, the therapist, had a straightforward style and gentle gaze. She paid close attention to both of our stories.
“Evan,” she said, “you’ve described feeling responsible for your mother’s emotional wellbeing. When did that start?”
“I don’t know. Always? If she’s upset, I’ll fix it.”
“And what about Anna’s emotional wellbeing?”
He parted his lips, then shut them again.
“Who taught you that your mother’s needs come before your wife’s?”
“Nobody taught me that. I just… she raised me alone. I owe her.”
With gentle words, “You owe her respect and love,” Dr. Patterson remarked. “Not your marriage.”
We didn’t talk as we drove home.
As soon as we got into our driveway, I said, “I need you to ask your mother to move to the guest room,”
“Anna…”
“Tonight, Evan. Or I’m going to my dad’s.”
Lydia was cooking what appeared to be a feast in the kitchen when he arrived.
“Mom, we need to talk.”
She glanced up, immediately aware of danger. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“I think it’s time you moved to the guest room. Anna needs to prepare the nursery.”
Lydia’s expression changed many times.
“But darling, I’m finally feeling stable here. Moving me now could trigger a relapse. Dr. Wills was very clear about the importance of consistent environment.”
I took out my phone and played the last night’s footage.
Saying, “Dr. Wills never said any such thing,” I pressed the play button.
“I told Evan that Dr. Wills said I was showing signs of depression. Poor boy practically begged me to move in!” Lydia’s voice echoed through the kitchen.
Her face was devoid of color.
Evan froze. “Is that you, Mom?”
“That’s… that’s taken out of context. I was just…”
“The doctor thing was genius, right? I called Dr. Wills’ office and asked some hypothetical questions about seasonal depression,” she said, her voice from the recording still echoing throughout the room.
Evan grabbed Lydia’s wrist before she could reach for my phone.
“Stop,” he said. “Just stop.”
When she realized her show was over, she looked at him.
She growled at me, “How long have you been recording me?”
“Long enough! Long enough to know you think I have juvenile taste and you’re planning to take over our basement too.”
Evan appeared to have been struck by a brick.
“Pack your things,” he instructed his mom. “You can stay in the guest room… for now.”
“Evan, please, I can explain…”
“No more explanation and lies, Mom. You’ve got two days to pack all your stuff and leave.”
Lydia used all of her tools, including accusations, tears, and the allegation that I had “poisoned” her kid against her. At one point, she even tried chest pains, which resulted in a very painful visit to the emergency department, where diagnostics revealed nothing at all wrong.
Over the course of the following two days, Evan moved all of the furniture back. Like a man trying to mend something he’d damaged, he worked meticulously.
He put the crib back together and apologized, “I’m sorry,” “I’m so damn sorry.”
I folded the small clothing and asked, “Why did you believe her so easily?”
“Because saying no to her has never been an option. Even as a kid, keeping her happy was my job.”
“What about keeping me happy?”
“I thought I was. I thought taking care of her was like taking care of our family.”
“Your family is right here,” I added, gesturing to my abdomen. “This is your family now.”
He paused his work and turned to face me, saying, “I know that now.”
The next morning, Lydia went with little fuss, mainly because my father had come to “help with the transition.” Dad didn’t say much, but his presence was a powerful statement.
Evan told her at the door, “After the baby is born, we’ll review the visiting schedule.” “When you’re ready to respect our boundaries.”
She whispered, “You’ll regret this,” but her heart was no longer in it.
When she was gone, I stood in the doorway of the nursery, admiring the remodeled room. The crib was back where it belonged. The rocker went back to its window-side location. Beneath the clouds on the walls, our son was still waiting to dream.
Evan approached me from behind and put his arms over my protruding abdomen.
Softly, “Our baby’s room,” he said.
I concurred, “Our baby’s room,”
Some lessons are delivered at the most inconvenient moments. But throughout those awful weeks, I gained some important knowledge. Avoiding disagreement is not the goal of marriage. It all comes down to picking the correct battles and waging them together.
