My mother-in-law nearly killed my son with her so-called “loving” methods. And my husband? He just shrugged.
I don’t know how to explain this to Evelyn, my mother-in-law, but she seems utterly blind to the fact that her “affection” and homemade remedies could cost our child his life. We share the same goal—raising a healthy, happy grandson—yet her ways are turning my life into a nightmare and my son into a lab rat.
It started when Oliver began nursery. He’d just turned three, and like most kids, he caught every bug going—fevers, sniffles, coughs, chickenpox. I’d just gone back to work at the insurance firm after maternity leave, and no one there was handing out favours. Sick days were my problem. So I turned to Evelyn. She lived nearby, retired, and jumped at the chance to help.
But it soon became clear she knew nothing about medicine—yet acted like an expert. She’d “treat” Oliver herself: syrups, drops, tablets, whatever the neighbour or some TV quack recommended. I left detailed instructions—what to give, when, and how much. She ignored them. And I kept quiet. Because without her, I had no one.
I stayed silent—until the day Oliver started choking. I came home early—instinct, fate, I don’t know. His face was swelling, his eyes bloodshot, lips blue. An allergic reaction. I found the emergency adrenaline injector I kept in the fridge, stabbed it into his thigh. Half an hour later, he could breathe again.
I nearly lost my mind. Then I checked Evelyn’s medicine cabinet—and it all made sense. She’d given him cough syrup, “immune-boosting” drops, and some rainbow-coloured pills her “neighbour from flat six” swore by. Those drops had nearly killed him.
I couldn’t stay silent anymore.
“Evelyn, don’t give Oliver anything unless I’ve approved it. I leave labelled medicine—use that. He could’ve died!”
“Oh, love, don’t be dramatic. I just wanted him better. It’s only a cough and sniffles. A bit of syrup, some drops—”
“Those drops almost stopped his heart! Why didn’t you call an ambulance?!”
“Well, what if it was nothing? You got here in time, didn’t you? No harm done. Since when does love hurt anyone?”
Then my husband, James, walked in.
“What’s all this shouting?”
Evelyn put on a wounded act.
“Your wife says I’m unfit to look after Oliver. Suppose she’ll be quitting her job, then.”
“Emma, come on,” James cut in. “Mum helps us—cooks, minds Ollie. Why are you tearing into her?”
“Did you know your ‘helpful’ mother nearly killed him? She dosed him into anaphylaxis! If I’d been later, he’d be dead.”
“Christ, it’s fine now! Mum won’t do it again, right, Mum?”
“Course not. I only wanted what’s best…”
Then James dropped the final blow.
“Enough. Let’s eat. I’m starving.”
I wanted to scream. But I didn’t. Later, when Evelyn left, I tried talking to James.
“Do you even grasp what happened? Did you see your son gasping for air?”
“Yeah. But Mum promised—”
“Promised? And tomorrow? What’s stopping her then?”
“You know she loves Ollie. What d’you want me to do? Hire a nanny?”
“Yes!”
“So you trust a stranger over my own mother?”
“After today? Absolutely. A stranger wouldn’t play chemist with my child. I’ll start looking. If you’d seen him turn blue, you’d understand.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Kept imagining Oliver choking while I was stuck in the lift, and Evelyn—ever the doting gran—force-feeding him another fistful of pills.
By morning, I was on my laptop, searching for nannies. A stranger, yes—but at least I could train her to follow instructions. And better still—she wouldn’t lie to me about what she’d fed my child.
Maybe Evelyn meant well. But the road to A&E is paved with good intentions.
