My mother-in-law nearly killed my son with her “loving” remedies. And all my husband did was shrug…
I don’t know how to explain this to Evelyn Margaret, my dear mother-in-law, but she seems utterly convinced that her blind “affection” and home cures are just what my child needs—never mind that they might actually finish him off. Yes, in theory, we share the same goal: raising a healthy, happy grandson. But her methods are turning my life into a waking nightmare and my son into a lab rat.
It all started when little Oliver began nursery. He’d just turned three, and like clockwork, he caught every bug going. Two days in, and bam—fever, sniffles, cough, chickenpox. I’d just gone back to work after maternity leave, at an insurance firm where “compassionate leave” is code for “you’re on your own.” So I turned to Evelyn for help. She lives nearby, retired, and jumped at the chance.
Trouble is, Evelyn’s medical expertise begins and ends with whatever her neighbor Doris swears by. She took it upon herself to “treat” Oliver—syrups, drops, tablets, all gleaned from daytime telly or whispered over the garden fence. I left clear instructions: what, when, how much. But my notes might as well have been invisible. And I let it slide—because who else was going to watch him?
I kept quiet until the day Oliver started choking. I came home early—mother’s intuition, fate, who knows. His face was swollen, eyes bulging, lips blue. Allergic reaction. I grabbed the emergency adrenaline injector I kept in the fridge, jabbed him, and within half an hour, he was breathing again.
I nearly lost my mind. Then I opened Evelyn’s medicine cabinet—ah, mystery solved. She’d dosed him with cough syrup, “immunity-boosting” drops, and some rainbow-colored lozenges Doris had “highly recommended.” Those drops? Pure poison for my boy.
I couldn’t stay silent anymore.
“Evelyn, please—do not give Oliver anything I haven’t approved. I leave labelled medicines for a reason. He could’ve died!”
“Oh, Emily darling, don’t be dramatic. I just wanted him better faster. It’s just a cough and a runny nose! A little syrup, a few drops—”
“Those drops nearly killed him! Why didn’t you call an ambulance?!”
“Well, what if it was nothing? And you got here in time, didn’t you? Since when does love hurt anyone?”
That’s when my husband, Jeremy, strolled in.
“What’s all the commotion?”
Evelyn, with theatrical wounded pride:
“Your wife says I’m neglecting Oliver. I suppose she’ll be looking after him herself now.”
“Em, love, no need for that,” Jeremy cut in. “Mum helps us loads—cooks, watches Ollie. Why are you having a go at her?”
“Do you realise your son almost died because of her ‘help’? She fed him so much junk he had a full-blown allergic reaction. Any later, and he’d have been gone.”
“Come on, it all worked out! Mum won’t do it again, right, Mum?”
“Of course not. I only meant well…”
Then Jeremy dropped the bomb:
“Right, enough. Let’s have dinner—I’m starving.”
I wanted to scream. Instead, I bit my tongue. After Evelyn left, I tried talking sense into Jeremy.
“Do you even grasp what happened? Did you see your son’s face?”
“Saw it. But Mum promised not to do it again.”
“Promised. What’s stopping her from trying some other quack remedy tomorrow?”
“You know she adores Oliver. What d’you want me to do, hire a nanny?”
“Yes!”
“So you don’t trust my mother, but a stranger’s fine?”
“After today? Absolutely. At least a professional nanny wouldn’t play chemist with my child. I’ll start looking. And if you’d seen him gasping for air, you’d back me up.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Kept imagining Oliver turning blue again while I was stuck in a lift, helpless, with only “loving” Gran and her bag of mystery pills to save him.
By morning, I was on my laptop, searching for nannies. A stranger? Maybe. But one I could train to follow instructions. Most importantly, one who wouldn’t hide what they’d fed my child.
Evelyn may have meant well. But the road to A&E is paved with just such good intentions.
