For six years, my wife Olivia and I scrimped and saved, denying ourselves almost everything, just to buy our own home. At last, we had our own two-bed flat—cozy, bright, if a bit basic. This was supposed to be the start of our new chapter, a family life just for us. Olivia was heavily pregnant, due any day now. Everything was ready: the hospital bag packed, the nursery set up, just a final clean before parenthood properly began.
Olivia had always dreamed of having her own space, free from parental oversight—especially without her mother-in-law interfering. Margaret Wilkinson had always been… difficult. She loved dictating how to live, breathe, even how to wash dishes. Once, Olivia had snapped and told her bluntly she didn’t need constant advice. Margaret took offence and vanished from our lives—for a while.
When I drove Olivia to the hospital, I never imagined the shock waiting for me. The very next day, Mum called to say she was coming over. I didn’t even get a chance to protest. Margaret arrived in full force, inspecting the flat with a critical eye—the hallway was “passable,” the curtains “dreadful,” the kitchen a “glossy nightmare that’ll need polishing daily!” She rummaged through the fridge, insulting our ready-made meals before announcing she’d make a roast the next day. I tried to laugh it off, but she wasn’t having any of it. She changed into her tracksuit and marched off to inspect the rest of the place like a general.
That evening, I offered to drive her home. Instead, she declared, *”I’m staying the night. You shouldn’t be alone in case they discharge Olivia tomorrow.”* And so she stayed. One night became two, then three…
While I was at work, she rearranged our things, sorted through clothes, decided where the changing table should go, and made lists of what *she* thought we still needed. I was losing my mind but couldn’t bring myself to disappoint her. Then she dropped the bombshell: she’d be staying for *months* to “help” with the baby. Because, obviously, we’d be hopeless on our own.
When Olivia was finally discharged, we all went to collect her—her parents, me, and, of course, a beaming Margaret. Olivia knew instantly something was off. New curtains, furniture moved, the whole flat smelled different. Her parents left. Margaret didn’t. At Olivia’s silent question, I muttered, *”Mum’s staying for a bit. To help…”*
Olivia was exhausted, but what choice did she have? That evening, the torture began: *”You’re holding him wrong.” “That’s not how you swaddle.” “He’s crying because you don’t know how to soothe him.”* Olivia endured it—until Margaret tried to take the baby from her. That was the last straw.
*”Thanks for the help, but you can go now,”* she said quietly. *”This is my child. I’ll soothe him. Myself.”*
Margaret rolled her eyes, utterly affronted. I tried weakly to mediate, but one look from Olivia shut me up. She was calm. Firm. This was *her* home. *Her* family.
Margaret packed her bags. She never came back. I finally realised my wife didn’t need instructions—she needed support. And for the first time, Olivia felt like the true mistress of her own home. No matter how much time had passed since the birth, what mattered was—she didn’t let herself be broken.
