The mother, the mother-in-law, and I on the brink.
“Are you sure beetroot won’t harm the baby?” asked the mother-in-law, stirring the stew.
“Mum, she’s been making this stew for three days,” sighed Oliver. “Can I just finish and go to work?”
“This stew is medicinal!” The mother-in-law brandished her spoon. “And your mother salts it like she’s firing a cannon. That can’t be good for the baby!”
“Excuse me, I raised three children,” replied Margaret calmly, pulling a pot from the fridge. “All alive. This is bean stew. Protein!”
“Mother-in-law, beans are too heavy! We’re not peasants!”
“And this isn’t a hospital!” Margaret shot back.
Claire sat on the kitchen stool, arms wrapped around her belly, wishing someone would mute the room. She was seven months pregnant, and she’d once thought the worst part would be the morning sickness. Now she knew better—the real challenge was staying sane between two women who each wanted what was “best.”
The mother-in-law had moved in the moment she heard about the pregnancy. “A grandson! Our first! You don’t have space, so I’ll help.” Claire’s mother followed a week later. “You’re my only daughter. I’ll drop everything and come.” So three women now lived in a two-bedroom flat.
“I’m pregnant, not ill,” Claire whispered to her husband that evening.
“I know. Bear with it. It’ll be over soon. Mum will leave after the birth.”
“And mine?”
“Maybe… yours too. Maybe they’ll become friends?”
They didn’t. They began to compete.
First—cleaning. In the morning, Claire’s mother mopped the floors. By afternoon, the mother-in-law remopped, “because of drafts, dust, germs.” Then—shopping. Baby grows appeared in triplicate—sizes 0-3, 3-6, 6-12. All pink. Though no one knew the baby’s gender.
But the real battleground was the rocking chair.
“I chose it!” declared the mother-in-law.
“I bought it,” Margaret countered.
“I mentioned it first!”
“And I brought it home first!”
“It’ll stay in my room,” the mother-in-law concluded firmly.
“Since when?!” Margaret protested. “Claire will breastfeed there. It goes in her room.”
“Actually, I planned to sleep in that chair,” Claire muttered. “With the baby.”
“Why should you? You’ll be exhausted! Let the baby stay with me!” cried the mother-in-law.
“Or me!” her mother added.
“And where, exactly, do I fit in?” Oliver snapped. “I’m the father, by the way!”
“You can sleep in the kitchen. There’s a sofa,” they chorused.
The next day, the chair vanished. Not in Claire’s room, not with the mother-in-law, not with Margaret.
“Where’s the rocking chair?” Claire asked.
“Relocated,” the mother-in-law clipped.
“Hidden,” Margaret hissed.
The war peaked. The kitchen no longer simmered with stew, but with silence. Sharp glances. Oliver worked late. Claire ate yoghurt in the bathroom.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she said that night. “This is my child. My body. My life. I didn’t ask for these ‘sacrifices.’”
“They just want to help,” Oliver hedged.
“They want control. And you say nothing. Because you’re used to it. I’m not.”
That night, Claire barely slept. By morning, she scoured rental listings. By noon, she returned with keys.
“What’s this?” Oliver asked.
“A two-bedroom flat. Light, airy. Lease is signed.”
“Claire…”
“I’m not leaving you. I’m leaving for myself. Join me, or see me at the hospital.”
He said nothing.
Half an hour later, she left with a suitcase. By the building’s entrance sat the rocking chair—knit blanket, kitten-print cushion. She smiled. Then called a charity collection. Within two hours, the chair was gone.
The new flat smelled of paint and fresh air. Claire unpacked, arranged creams, brewed mint tea. Played music. For the first time in ages, she just lay on the sofa.
Three days later, Oliver arrived with a backpack.
“It’s impossible there. They don’t speak. Dinner’s a funeral.”
“And here?”
“Here, you can breathe. I get it. You’re not just a mother. You’re a person.”
A boy was born in August. At night. No rocking chair—just love. The mother-in-law and Margaret visited in turns. Scheduled. With stew—but in Tupperware.
“We understand,” the mother-in-law said. “A chair won’t fix things.”
“Worrying helps no one,” Margaret sighed.
Claire held her son and thought: stew could wait. Life had room for only one place—hers.
Two weeks postpartum, Claire slipped into jeans—looser than before, but not pajamas.
“I feel human again,” she said, turning to Oliver as he bottle-fed the baby like he’d done it forever.
“You always were. Even in a bathrobe.”
“Thanks. You’re not bad either—even with porridge on your shirt.”
They laughed—light, real. Unlike the flat with three stews.
Life settled. Mornings: feeding, naps, walks. Afternoons: showers, coffee, maybe thirty minutes to herself. Oliver took leave—a savior.
“Dad! Look! I can change nappies, rock, even hum ‘Lion King.’ That counts, right?” He grinned.
“Absolutely. You’re brilliant.”
But the dreaded day came.
“Claire, we’d love to visit. See our grandson. Me Friday, your mum Saturday. We agreed.”
She exhaled. That old chill crept in—the one from “that’s not how we do it.”
“An hour each. No food, no stew. Just the baby. No judgments. Take it or leave it.”
Silence.
“Fine,” the mother-in-law said first.
Friday, Claire opened the door. Eleanor stood with flowers, a restrained smile, and—empty hands.
“No stew. I keep my word. May I wash my hands?”
“Of course.”
She sat by the window. Quiet. Watched the baby. Smiled. Only once said:
“Looks like Oliver. Your nose, though. Lucky mix.”
Claire brought tea.
“Thank you. Claire… I’ve realized parenting isn’t reliving. It’s letting go. I wanted you to live my life. But you’re living yours. And it’s working. I’m proud. Grateful.”
A tear slipped—swiftly wiped away.
Next morning, Margaret arrived—sunglasses, ice cream.
“Can’t have sweets now, but I got you cherry. Remember how you loved it?”
“I remember.”
They sat on the balcony while Oliver rocked the baby inside.
“You’re strong. I always knew. Just forgot you’re not a girl anymore. You’re a woman. I wanted to be needed—ended up in the way.”
“You were needed. Just differently. I had to learn that. You—to let go.”
Margaret nodded. Gifted handmade socks. No fanfare.
After that, things changed. The grandmothers visited in turns, helped without hovering. Sometimes babysat so Claire and Oliver could slip out.
One autumn day, walking through the park, eating wraps from a van, Claire asked,
“Remember that chair?”
“How could I forget? A throne of war.”
“Now we have our own. Soft, comfy. No battles.”
“And three adults who finally grew up.”
“And a baby who sleeps—because no one argues over who he belongs to.”
Oliver stopped, pulled her close.
“Thank you. For not breaking. For speaking up. You fixed us—and them.”
Claire smiled. Her phone buzzed—a photo: two grandmas and the baby. One in a hooded onesie, two beaming faces.
“Look. They’re friends now.”
“Turns out, peace happens when they’re not cooking together.”
They laughed. Walked on. Into their evening. Their life. Their story—where everyone had their own chair. By choice.
