My husband gave away our baby’s nursery to his mom because she was “lonely and depressed.” I thought my heart was going to shatter. But that night, when I passed the nursery, I overheard something that changed everything. My mother-in-law was more cunning than I ever imagined.
For two whole months, Evan and I worked on that nursery like it was the most important thing in the world. We poured ourselves into it. I chose a soft sage green for the walls—it felt calming, earthy, and perfect for a baby. Even though my back screamed with pain, I carefully stenciled fluffy little clouds just above the crib, so our baby could dream under something magical.
When we finally assembled the crib, Evan’s eyes welled with tears. He whispered, “Our little family.”
I should’ve recorded that moment—because later, it would feel like evidence of a broken promise.
One Thursday afternoon, I was at the clinic for my routine check-up when my phone buzzed. It was Evan.
Text: “Can we talk when you get home? Mom’s not doing great.”
When I walked into the house, Evan was pacing around the kitchen like a caged animal.
“Okay, so here’s the thing,” he began, avoiding my eyes. “Mom called Dr. Wills. She said she’s been feeling lonely and depressed. He strongly recommended she stay close to family for a while.”
I set my purse down slowly. “How close?”
He fidgeted with the keys, then the salt shaker, then his phone. “I thought maybe… she could use the nursery temporarily. Just until she stabilizes.”
I blinked. “Come again?”
“Think about it logically,” he rushed on. “Babies don’t use cribs right away. We’ll keep a bassinet in our room for now. Mom needs comfort, and if she’s here, she could also help us.”
I stared at him. “You want to put your mother in our baby’s room?”
“Temporarily!” he insisted. “She’s already… here.”
My stomach dropped. I walked past him, straight down the hall, my hands trembling as I turned the nursery door handle.
My breath caught. The rocking chair was gone. In its place sat a queen-size bed covered with Lydia’s floral comforter. Her jewelry box was perched on top of the changing table like it owned the place. And there she was—Lydia, unpacking her bags with her phone pressed to her ear.
“Oh, she’s here! Gotta go, Susan,” she chirped before hanging up. Then she turned to me with a wide smile. “Anna! Don’t you love what we’ve done with the space?”
My voice shook. “Where’s the crib, Lydia?”
“Evan moved it to the corner for now. Don’t worry, sweetie, I won’t be in your way.”
Then, as if twisting the knife, she added, “Oh, and those clouds you painted? Very cute… but a bit childish for a guest room, don’t you think? I was telling my friend Susan maybe we should try a more mature color palette.”
I clenched my fists. “It’s not a guest room. It’s temporary.”
“Of course, dear,” she said, patting my arm like I was a silly child. “We’ll see how things go.”
Evan was hovering in the doorway, guilt all over his face.
“When did this happen?” I demanded.
“This afternoon,” he muttered. “While you were at Dr. Murphy’s.”
My prenatal appointment. The one he skipped because Lydia wanted him to “check a noise in her car.”
I felt like I’d been slapped. “You moved our baby’s furniture while I was getting checked for preeclampsia? You could’ve used the guest room.”
“Anna, please,” he said, voice desperate. “The guest room isn’t comfortable for her and—”
“I understand perfectly,” I cut him off, storming past them. Lydia was smiling like she’d already won.
Later, Evan tried to defend himself in our bedroom. “She cried on the phone, Anna. What was I supposed to do?”
“I’m eight months pregnant! I can barely tie my shoes or sleep more than an hour without peeing. I need that room ready.”
“We have time,” he argued weakly.
“No, you have time. I have a human being about to claw his way out of my body.”
He sighed. “It’s temporary. Just a few months.”
I stared at him. “Fine. But don’t expect me to be happy about it.”
That night, around 10 p.m., our son kicked me awake. I got up for a heating pad and passed by the nursery. Lydia’s voice drifted through the cracked door.
“You should have seen her face when she walked in!” she laughed. “Like someone had died!”
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 depressed. 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 a word without looking cruel. What kind of daughter-in-law kicks out a depressed mother-in-law? By the time that baby comes, I’ll be so established here, they won’t even remember it was her house first.”
I could barely breathe.
“Oh, Susan, I’ve been planning this since the moment she got pregnant. Once the baby’s born, old mothers get ignored. Not me. Never me.”
Tears burned my eyes.
“The doctor thing was genius, right?” she bragged. “I called his office, asked a few questions about seasonal depression, and spun it to Evan. Sometimes I amaze myself.”
I staggered back to our bedroom. Evan was on his tablet, calm and clueless.
“I need to tell you something,” I said, sitting down.
He looked up. “What’s wrong?”
“Your mother just admitted to faking her depression. I heard her. She planned this. She even bragged about it.”
Evan frowned. “That’s not… she wouldn’t.”
“She said, ‘By the time the baby comes, I’ll be so established here they’ll forget whose house this was first.’ Those were her words, Evan!”
He shook his head. “Mom gets dramatic. She probably didn’t mean—”
“She conned you,” I snapped. “She stole our nursery with lies.”
He rubbed his forehead. “Even if she exaggerated, she’s still struggling. We can’t just throw her out. She’s my mother.”
I stared at him, betrayal cutting deep. “Your pregnant wife tells you she’s being manipulated, and your first reaction is to defend the manipulator?”
He had no answer.
The next morning, I called Aunt Carla—my mom’s sister. She had the energy of a retired sheriff and the voice of a choir director. When she arrived, she carried a sleek baby monitor.
“We need proof,” she said firmly. “She wants to play games? Let’s record her.”
That night, we caught Lydia bragging again on video. She gloated about manipulating Evan, mocked me for being “too emotional,” and even planned to push for moving the nursery to the basement.
That was the last straw.
The next day, I confronted Evan with the recording. He tried to make excuses at first, but when Lydia’s voice filled the kitchen saying, “Poor boy practically begged me to move in!” he went pale.
“Is that you, Mom?” he asked, his voice flat.
Lydia’s face drained of color. “That’s taken out of context…”
Evan stopped her. “No more lies. Pack your things. You’re moving to the guest room. And after the baby comes—you’re leaving.”
She tried everything—tears, guilt, even fake chest pains at one point. But nothing worked this time.
Over the next two days, Evan moved all the nursery furniture back, piece by piece.
“I’m so sorry,” he said quietly while reassembling the crib. “I thought I was protecting my family. I didn’t realize I was tearing it apart.”
“Your family is right here,” I said, resting a hand on my belly. “This is your family now.”
He looked at me, eyes full of regret. “I know. And I’ll never forget it again.”
When Lydia finally left, my dad came over to make sure she didn’t try anything. She muttered threats under her breath, but her power was gone.
I stood in the doorway of the nursery that night, staring at the crib, the rocking chair, and the clouds I had painted with so much love.
Evan wrapped his arms around me from behind. “Our baby’s room,” he whispered.
“Our baby’s room,” I repeated.
That’s when I realized something. Marriage isn’t about never fighting. It’s about fighting the right battles—together.