June 12th, 2023
I don’t trust my son’s mother-in-law. My husband says I’m obsessed with the baby.
In a quiet corner of Brighton, inside a modest flat, a storm brewed between us. Emily, my 25-year-old wife, stood over our son’s crib, exhaustion and frustration tightening her voice. She’s torn—between motherhood, being a wife, and the weight of expectations.
“We had a terrible row,” Emily confessed, rubbing her tired eyes. “I know I’m not perfect, but I’m the one looking after our boy! Oliver’s fussy—teething, probably. I’ve been carrying him all day, couldn’t even manage to cook.”
Little ones test you in ways no one quite grasps—not even my husband, James.
“He came home shouting about how he’s starving,” Emily muttered, voice trembling. “Then he had a go at me for not greeting him at the door. I was rocking Oliver to sleep—was I supposed to just drop him?”
James hasn’t grasped what it means to be a mother. Emily handles everything: nappies, meals, the house. Meanwhile, I bring home the money and expect dinner on the table, spotless floors—as if she’s got magic hands.
She tries. God knows she does. But Oliver’s clingy, demanding her every minute. Some days, she barely sweeps the floors, let alone cooks three meals. Her parents live up in Newcastle, working. No help from them. And her mother-in-law? Margaret—well, that’s another story.
“She’s never approved of us,” Emily admitted bitterly. “Thought we were too young. Didn’t want to let her ‘Jamie’ go. Said we’d split in a year. We didn’t. But sometimes… I wonder how long we’ll last.”
After Oliver was born, she tried with Margaret. The woman softened—smiled once or twice, even bought him a teddy. But warmth? None of that.
And now James claims she’s obsessed with Oliver.
“He says I’ve no time for him anymore,” she said, jaw tight. “Wants us to go to the shopping centre Saturday, leave Oliver with his mum.”
Emily’s never left him with anyone. He’s breastfed, attached to her like glue. Margaret’s seen him a handful of times—how would she manage? But James wouldn’t budge.
“My mum raised three kids,” he shot back. “She knows what she’s doing. More than you, at any rate.”
He even bought a breast pump—so she could leave milk. Problem is, Oliver won’t take a bottle. Cries, turns away like he knows it’s not her.
Now James has laid down the ultimatum: either she lets his mother watch the baby, or there’ll be hell to pay. Margaret’s willing, apparently. But Emily can’t shake the dread.
“I don’t trust her,” she whispered. “Not because she’s cruel—just… he’s mine. What if he cries? What if she doesn’t know what he needs?”
James insists they need time alone.
“We’re not just parents—we’re husband and wife!” he snapped. “Or have you forgotten that?”
That stung. She loves him, but his nagging feels unfair. She’s the one up at all hours, feeding, cleaning, soothing—alone. And he wants romance, smiles, like she’s not bone-tired.
Now she’s cornered: give in and swallow her fear, or stand her ground and risk another fight. Her heart’s split in two. She’s terrified for Oliver—but the marriage is cracking.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said, watching Oliver sleep. “If I say no, James will say I don’t care. But if I say yes… how do I live with myself if something happens?”
What’s she meant to do? Swallow the fear and trust Margaret? Or hold fast, even if it sets them at odds again? Maybe she’s overreacting. Or maybe that fear is the one voice she shouldn’t ignore.
Lesson learned: Love doesn’t split cleanly. Sometimes, you’re pulled in every direction at once—and no choice feels right.
