“Is your daughter screaming again?!” – and this came from a woman who calls *herself* a grandmother.
“Why is that child of yours wailing *again*?!” My mother-in-law spat the words at me with such disgust, you’d think I’d brought home some stranger’s kid, not my own. *Her* own granddaughter.
“She’s poorly, running a fever,” I tried to explain, my voice shaky with exhaustion.
“Well, *I* don’t care! Tell her to shut it! My head’s pounding!” She didn’t even glance toward the nursery, where my little girl was whimpering, burning up, tangled in her bedsheets.
I was running around the flat like a headless chicken—checking the baby’s bottle, drawing the curtains so the light didn’t hurt her eyes, scrambling for Calpol while she whimpered, her whole little body aching. Then I flicked on the star projector—the only thing that even slightly calmed her. She’d stare up at those glowing constellations on the ceiling and go quiet for *just* a minute. And in that tiny window, I’d bolt to the kitchen—making porridge, boiling water for her bottle, checking her nappy. All of it. By myself.
And *her*? Oh, she was lounged in her armchair like the Queen herself, in that garish snakeskin-print dress, moaning about *her* headache, demanding silence, accusing *me* of not being able to “shut that child up.”
“Listen here,” she hissed as I hurried past, “you’ll be out on your ear soon enough. You and that snivelling brat. My son could’ve had his pick of girls—*proper* ones. He didn’t marry you to live in a madhouse! He’ll get sick of this ‘family’ nonsense soon enough, mark my words.”
And y’know what? *Piss off*. Just *piss right off*. But I didn’t say it. I clenched my jaw and ran back to my baby, because she was crying again—hot, hurting, with no one to hold her but me. I tucked the blanket around her, kissed her blazing little forehead, pulled her close.
Then back to the kitchen. And back to *her* poison:
“Good mums don’t raise screamers.”
“That child’s just spoiled rotten!”
“Women like you are a disgrace.”
“My son deserves a *proper* wife, not—”
And where was *my* husband? Too busy. Always too busy. Too busy to notice his mum poisoning every bloody day. “Just ignore her,” he says. “She’s getting on.” But *my* exhaustion? *My* shaking hands? *Our* child, ill, and me stuck in this nightmare alone? Doesn’t seem to cross his mind.
I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know how much longer I can stay in this house where my girl and I aren’t wanted. But I *do* know one thing—I won’t let anyone belittle my daughter. Not anymore. I’ll walk. I’ll fight. I’m not just some wife. Not just some daughter-in-law. I’m a *mum*. And that means I’m stronger than they think.
