The silence of the bedroom presses down on me like a weight. Three sleepless nights have left me hollow, gnawed at by guilt like a starving creature. I stand on the edge of a precipice, torn between duty and fear. My life is about to change foreverIm eight months pregnant, and the reality of motherhood looms.
After the wedding, I moved to my husbands home in Manchester, leaving behind my parents in their quiet village near York. We see them rarelyjust the occasional visit, counted on one hand.
The other evening, Mum and I sat in my small kitchen, sipping tea. She reminisced about how hard it was when I was born, how exhausted shed been, how my grandmother had been her only lifeline. Her words struck deep. I imagined myselfoverwhelmed, afraidwith a newborn, and before I could stop myself, I blurted out, *”Mum, why dont you stay with us for a bit after the baby comes? Help me find my feet.”*
Her face lit up as if Id handed her the moon. But then*”Oh, love, your dad and I would *love* to stay a whole year! Well even rent out our place to help with your bills!”*
Ice flooded my veins. I hadnt meant *Dad*. Not for a *year*. Just Mum, for a few weeks at most.
Now, the dread sets inDad, smoking in the garden, the smell clinging to the curtains. The baby coughing, chilled by the winter drafts every time he steps outside. Hell be bored, blasting old war films on the telly or dragging my husband to the pub till all hours. A year of noise, of chaosmy chest tightens at the thought.
I forced myself to speak. *”Mum, I only meant you. A month, not a year.”*
Her face darkened. *”Its both of us or neither.”* She left in a huff, leaving silence thick as fog.
Now, I lie awake, the guilt a relentless whisper: *Selfish. Ungrateful.* But my heart screams back*I cant do it. I have to protect my baby, my home.*
Is she right? Would denying her this break something between us? Or am I right to hold my ground? The questions spiral, endless. I need an answerbefore the weight of them crushes me completely.
