**16th March, 2024**
Sometimes, I think the hardest part of being a woman isn’t pregnancy, or chores, or even other people’s illnesses. The worst part is fighting for the right to be a wife when your mother-in-law swoops in, ready to sacrifice everything for her “precious boy.” A boy, mind you, who’s already thirty-three and perfectly capable of telling a cold from the apocalypse. But not to his mother.
My husband Thomas fell ill—just a common cold: runny nose, cough, a slight fever. No Covid, his taste buds worked fine, the test was negative, and the GP diagnosed it plainly as a viral infection. Hot drinks, fresh air, vitamins if he fancied them. He didn’t slack—ran to the shops, did the washing-up. I’m seven months along, so heavy lifting’s off the table. He didn’t skip work either—his boss is a hard-nosed private firm owner, and asking for time off is risky. The pay’s modest but steady, and with my maternity leave looming, every penny counts.
We followed the doctor’s advice to the letter: warm blankets, tea with honey, old-fashioned remedies. I did my best to look after him. All was calm until he—bone-tired and careless—let slip to his mum about being under the weather. The very woman we’d sworn not to worry. Within an hour, she was on the last evening bus from Manchester, though we live clear across Leeds. By midnight, she was at our door.
Thomas had to drag himself up to let her in—no way was I trekking across town at that hour in my condition. And then she stormed in like a force of nature, seizing control. First decree: “No opening windows! The draft will finish him off!” Second: “Boil the kettle! I’ve brought herbs—they need steeping now!” At one in the morning. Third: “You, dear, go to the other room. You’re about to give birth—you’ll catch every germ in sight.”
Just like that, I ceased to exist. A grown woman, a wife, a soon-to-be mother—erased from the equation. Mummy was in charge now. Mummy knew best.
She rang Thomas’s boss and, deaf to his protests, declared her son gravely ill and unfit for work. “Find another job if you must, but you can’t buy back health!” she barked before hanging up. Thomas sat there, pale, speechless. I tried to reason with her—pointless.
Later, I brought out the vitamins the GP recommended. Cue a lecture on “chemical nonsense.” Bought apples? “Foreign fruit’s full of poison.” Made Thomas’s favourite soup? “Chicken broth’s the only thing for a cold!” Never mind that he’s loathed chicken since childhood—the smell turns his stomach.
Then came her hourly bleach scrubs. Never mind that the fumes made Thomas nauseous—Soviet-era standards trumped all. Buy medicine, brew herbs, obey orders, and stay out of the way.
I’d had enough. At dinner, I tried, polite as could be, to suggest we work together—after all, I cared for my husband too. She cut me off: “You don’t understand a thing. Where do you buy homeopathy here?”
I begged Thomas—just ask her gently to go home. He stayed silent. He’s afraid of her. He’d rather endure. But I won’t. Because soon, the baby will come, and this will start all over. She’ll dictate how to raise them, feed them, heal them. My voice won’t matter.
And I’m terrified. Not just for myself. What if his boss replaces him while he’s “sick”? Then what? A single income gone? Will Mummy help? With her pension? I’m already skimping to keep the baby safe.
Now, I sit alone in the kitchen, listening to her bark orders through the door, realising this battle’s only just begun. But I won’t stay quiet. Because this is my family. My child. My life. And I’ll fight for it.
**Lesson learnt: Love doesn’t excuse control. And sometimes, the hardest lines to draw are with the people who claim to care the most.**
