Sometimes I reckon the toughest part of a woman’s life ain’t pregnancy, or the daily grind, or even other folk’s illnesses. The real nightmare is fighting to keep your place as a wife when your mother-in-law swoops in, ready to sacrifice everything for her “precious boy.” A boy who, mind you, is thirty-three and perfectly capable of telling a cold from the apocalypse. But not to his mum.
My husband Adam came down poorly. Just a common cold—sniffles, a cough, a slight temperature. No covid, taste still working, test negative, doctor said it was just a virus—no drama. Hot drinks, air the room, vitamins if he fancied. He wasn’t slacking—still popped to the shop, did the washing-up. I’m seven months gone, shouldn’t be lifting heavy things. Didn’t skip work either—his boss is a hard man, runs his own firm, and asking for time off too often is risky. Wages aren’t much, but they’re steady. And I’m about to go on maternity, every penny counts.
We followed the doctor’s orders—cosy blanket, tea with honey, lemon and ginger—I looked after him best I could. All was calm till he, bone-tired and daft as it sounds, let slip to his mum about being ill. The very woman we didn’t want to worry. An hour later, she was on the last night bus from her end of Manchester to ours. Midnight on the clock, and there she was, rapping at the door.
Adam had to drag himself up to let her in—no way was I trekking across town at that hour in my condition. And there she stood, thunder in her eyes, marching in and taking charge. First decree: “No opening windows! The draft’ll finish him off!” Second: “Fetch boiling water! I’ve brought herbs, needs brewing straight away!”—this at one in the morning. Third: “You, love, off to the other room. You’re about to pop, no need catching his germs.”
From that moment, I might as well have vanished. A grown woman, a wife, mother-to-be—erased from the equation. Mum’s in charge now. Mum knows best.
She rang Adam’s boss and, despite his protests, declared her son was too poorly to work. “Find another job if you must, but health comes first!” she barked down the line before hanging up. Adam sat there, pale, lost for words. I tried to reason with her—pointless.
Later, I brought the vitamins the doctor recommended. Got a lecture about how it’s all “chemical rubbish.” Bought apples—only to hear imported fruit’s full of poison. Made Adam’s favourite soup—scolded: “Only chicken broth helps with colds!” Trouble is, he’s hated chicken since he was a lad—makes him queasy.
Then she insisted on bleaching the flat top to bottom every hour. Never mind the fumes made Adam heave—Soviet-era rules must be obeyed. Buy the pills, brew the remedies, take her orders, but keep out of the way.
I’d had enough. At dinner, I tried gently, politely, to say—thanks, Mum, but let’s work together, I’m worried for him too… She cut me off: “You don’t know the first thing. Where’s the nearest homeopathy shop?”
I begged Adam—just ask her to go home, nicely. He stayed quiet. He’s scared of her. Would rather suffer in silence. But I won’t. Not with the baby due soon, knowing full well the second it’s born, she’ll be back—meddling, feeding, lecturing. My voice, again, won’t matter.
And I’m afraid. Not just for me. What if his boss replaces him over this “sick leave”? Then what? No income? Will Mum help? On her pension? I’m already skimping on myself to keep the baby safe.
Now I sit alone at the kitchen table, listening to her bark orders through the door, and know—this battle’s only starting. But I’m done keeping quiet. This is my family. My child. My life. And I’ve every right to it.
