I suggested to my mum that she stay with us for a month after the baby is born, but she’s decided to move in for a year and bring dad too.
For the past three nights, I haven’t been able to sleep a wink. My conscience gnaws at me relentlessly, offering no peace whatsoever. It’s as if I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, torn between my sense of duty and my own fears. All this turmoil is because I’m eight months pregnant, and my life is on the brink of a monumental change. After the wedding, I moved in with my husband in another city, leaving my hometown in a distant English village far behind. My parents remained there, and we seldom see each other—sometimes they visit us, sometimes we visit them, but those meetings are few and far between.
Recently, during one of their visits, Mum and I sat in the small kitchen of our flat. Over a cup of tea, she reminisced about how hard it was when I was born. She recounted being alone with a newborn, exhausted to tears, and how only her mum, my grandmother, rescued her from despair. Her words struck a chord within me—I imagined myself in her place, helpless and bewildered with a newborn. And suddenly, even surprising myself, I blurted out, “Mum, come and stay with us after the baby comes, help me out a bit.” Her eyes lit up; she seemed invigorated, as if I’d given her a new lease on life. But then she said, quite unexpectedly, “Oh, your dad and I would gladly stay for a year! We can rent out our place and help you financially.”
I froze, as if doused with cold water. Her words echoed through my mind like a dirge. I love Dad dearly; he means the world to me. But my invitation was only for Mum, and not for a year—just a couple of weeks, a month at most—until I could find my feet as a mother. But a year, and with Dad too? I immediately pictured Dad, as he habitually steps out onto the balcony to smoke. When it’s just us, I turn a blind eye to the smell of tobacco that lingers around. But with a baby? I don’t want my child to breathe in that smoke, for its tiny lungs to suffer from the acrid odor. And in winter? Dad would be opening and closing the balcony door, letting in the icy wind. I can already see my child coughing, catching a cold, while I panic, unsure how to protect it.
And that’s not all. Dad gets bored staying with us—there’s nothing to keep him busy. He either watches TV all day, blasting his old films, or drags my husband out for a pint, and they disappear until late. I don’t mind him relaxing, but with a newborn in the house, I need my husband around, not out with his father-in-law. I envisioned this year—noise, smoke, endless disruptions—and felt a chill of terror run through me.
I mustered the courage to tell Mum directly, “Mum, I’m inviting only you, and not for a year, but for a month—not more.” Her face darkened, eyes filled with hurt. She retorted sharply, “I won’t go without your dad. It’s either both of us or not at all.” She left, leaving me in a heavy silence. Now I sit, staring into the darkness, feeling my soul torn apart. Did I do the right thing? Was I too harsh? Should I have agreed, swallowed my fears for Mum’s happiness? But how could I possibly endure that year, when already the mere thought of it suffocates me?
My conscience whispers that I’m selfish, that Mum wants to help me, and here I am pushing her away. But my heart screams: I can’t handle this, I want to protect my child, my home, my new life. I don’t know what to do. I lie awake at night, listening to my husband’s quiet breathing next to me, and I ponder: what if I’m wrong? What if Mum’s right, and I’m denying her the chance to be present at such an important moment? Or am I right, and I need to defend my boundaries before they collapse under the weight of others’ desires? What do you think is the truth? I’m drowning in these thoughts, and I need a light to guide me out of this darkness.
