I suggested to my mum that she stay with us for a month after the baby is born, but she decided to move in for a year and bring Dad along.
For three nights, I haven’t been able to sleep. My conscience gnaws at me like a hungry beast, giving me no peace at all. It’s as if I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, torn between my sense of duty and my own fears. All because I’m eight months pregnant, and my life is about to change forever. After the wedding, I moved to another city with my husband, leaving behind my childhood home in a distant village near Manchester, hundreds of miles away. My parents stayed there, and we seldom see each other — sometimes they visit us, or we visit them, but these meetings are so rare you could count them on one hand.
Recently, during one of these visits, Mum and I were sitting in my little kitchen. Over a cup of tea, she shared memories of how hard it was for her when I was born. She told me how she was left alone with a newborn, worn out to tears, and only her mum, my gran, saved her from complete despair. Her words struck a chord with me — I pictured myself in her position, helpless and unsure, with a newborn. Then, suddenly, even surprising myself, I blurted out, “Mum, why not come stay with us after the baby is born and help me out a bit?” Mum’s eyes lit up; she seemed so alive, as if I’d given her a second chance at life. But she quickly followed up with, “Oh, your father and I will be delighted to stay with you for a year! We’ll rent out our flat to help you financially.”
I froze, as though ice-cold water had been thrown over me. Her words echoed in my mind like an alarm bell. I love Dad dearly, with all my heart — he means the world to me. But I had only asked Mum, and not for a year, just a couple of weeks, maybe a month, until I got on my feet and figured out how to be a mother. And now it was a year, with Dad included! Immediately, I imagined the scene: Dad stepping out onto the balcony for a smoke. When we’re alone, I turn a blind eye to the smell of tobacco that lingers everywhere. But with a baby? I don’t want my child inhaling that smoke, his tiny lungs suffering from the harsh odor. And come 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, and me, running around in a panic, unsure how to protect him.
And that’s not all. Dad gets bored when he’s visiting — there’s not much for him to do. He either watches TV all day with the volume cranked up on old films or drags my husband out to the pub, and they’re gone until late. I’m fine with him relaxing, but with a newborn in the house, I need my husband around, not off drinking with the in-laws. I imagine this year — the noise, the smoke, the endless fuss, — and it fills me with dread.
I gathered my courage and told Mum straight: “Mum, I only asked you, and not for a year, but for a month, no more.” Her face darkened, her eyes filled with hurt. She snapped back, “I won’t go without your dad. It’s both of us or nothing.” And she left, leaving me in oppressive silence. Now, I sit, staring into the darkness, feeling my heart torn to pieces. Did I do the right thing? Was I too harsh? Should I have agreed, suppressed my fears for Mum’s happiness? But how can I endure a year like this, if just the thought of it makes me feel suffocated?
My conscience whispers that I’m being selfish, that Mum wants to help, and I’m pushing her away. But my heart cries out: I can’t do this, I want to protect my child, my home, my new life. I don’t know what to do. Lying awake at night, listening to my husband breathe softly beside me, I wonder: what if I’m wrong? What if Mum’s right, and I’m depriving her of this important moment? Or am I right and need to stand my ground before my boundaries crumble under the weight of others’ wishes? What do you think, where does the truth lie? I’m drowning in these thoughts and need some light to guide me out of this darkness.
