Why I Should Have Prepared for My Baby’s Arrival Sooner! – My Unforgettable Hospital Discharge, My Husband’s Broken Promises, and the Chaos That Awaited Me at Home. Now, Two Months On, Should I Blame My Family or Take Responsibility Myself? What Would You Have Done in My Shoes?

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 4 minViews 1

I really ought to have prepared for the babys arrival sooner!

My discharge from the hospital was anything but ordinary. Stephen picked me up straight from work, still in his suit. Id begged him to take some time off, even suggested holiday or at least a day, but his manager wouldnt have it. Id also asked him repeatedly to get things ready for the baby, and hed promised me he would handle it all. Had we sorted things out beforehandthe washing, shopping, organising the flatthings would have been so different! Instead, well… I, thirty-year-old Emily, found myself telling.

So, he broke his promise, did he?

I left for hospital completely unprepared, and when I returned, the mess greeted me like an old friend. I felt so embarrassed in front of the family whod come calling. The dust was unbelievableyou could have drawn pictures on the shelves. There was no pram, nor a changing unit, and Stephen hadnt even bothered to pick up any baby clothes. Thank heavens for my friends, whod handed me nappies I kept explaining.

Stephen and I married six years ago, and only now, after a long wait, had we become parents. Raising a child had been put off as we tried to get ourselves onto solid ground. Once things seemed stable, I finally allowed myself to get pregnant.

I let my boss know I was expecting, and he sacked me on the spot. Others might have kicked up a fuss, but I took it as a sign. I set about preparing for motherhood quietly, spending my days embroidering, enjoying some peace. Money wasnt pressing, as Stephen had just been promoted I explained.

The pregnancy went smoothly. I kept busy reading, taking long walks, and carefully choosing a few things for the baby.

Stephen wouldnt allow me to buy anything before the birth. Supposedly its bad luck, or so he said. My sister had promised us a cot and a dresser she used for her own little one, and had even put aside some other bits for us. She kept telling me to pick everything up, clean it, do a load of washing. I only packed my hospital bag; Stephen insisted I leave all the rest I sighed.

But when the time came, Stephen panicked, suddenly realising just how much we actually needed. After Id gone into labour, I was constantly worriedeven my clothes had been left in the washing machine untouched, and there they sat until I came back home.

Thank goodness my friends brought over baby clothes and nappies, otherwise Id have had nothing for the little one to change into. Stephen started dashing about London, collecting baby things here and there, but most items were grubby, dusty, and stained. I had to wash everything and wait for it all to dry. At that point, I honestly felt like throwing the lot of them out and divorcing himI nearly burst into tears.

For a few days, I was left scrubbing and tidying the flat. Its been two months since our son was born, and I still dont feel up to having guests around.

Now, the relatives assume enough time has passed that visiting is fair game. They expect a Sunday roast or some lovely tea Not likely! Theyve arranged my schedule for me already I said bitterly.

My mum cant fathom why Im not beaming with joy. You can tell we hadnt set things up in advance. She reckons I ought to have just done it myself: nine months at home, what was I doing? I couldve asked Stephen to bring in the furniture and clean the place up. Surely it wouldnt have been impossible to sway him on the shopping front. It turns out you simply have to make sure of things yourself. Who counts on men, anyway?

So, do you reckon its fair for me to blame my family? Or am I the one at fault? Should I have sorted things out myself and prepared for this baby in advance? Sometimes, I wish Id trusted my own judgement a bit more and made sure we were ready. The lesson Ive learnt is: never assume anyone else will do it all for youin the end, if you want it done right, youd best roll up your own sleeves.

Relatives Demanded My Bedroom for the Holidays—Left Empty-Handed When I Refused “Where am I supposed to put this bowl of jellied meat?” Aunt Val muttered, wrestling the massive dish into the fridge. “There’s no space—it’s crammed with your… whatever that is… carpaccio and avocados, honestly, who eats that stuff?” she grumbled, shoving my neat containers aside. I sighed and counted to ten, stirring sauce at the stove. The relatives had barely arrived twenty minutes ago, but it already felt like a noisy caravan had overtaken our flat, intent on rearranging our lives to suit themselves. “Aunt Val, just pop it out on the balcony. It’s cold, glazed, nothing will happen to it,” I replied, keeping my voice calm. “The fridge is all prepped for salads—I can’t let them freeze.” “Pff, the balcony! City dust flying everywhere! And what sort of hostess keeps food on the floor? Anyway, I’ll clear out your weird green stuff—no one’s going to eat it. Men need meat, not rabbit food,” she huffed, shifting focus to me. My husband, Paul, sliced bread at the table, trying to blend into the background; he knew Aunt Val and my cousin Lisa’s temper well. Lisa was currently critiquing our bathroom (“Only a shower? How do I bathe the boys?”) while her two young sons wiped chocolate hands on everything. I kept my composure, offering juice and warning about my precious hardwood floors, only to be told, “Don’t fuss, things are for people, not the other way round. Kids will be kids. You’ve changed, living in London,” Aunt Val scoffed. The holiday visit had been planned for months. Aunt Val and Lisa—along with the boys—invited themselves to “see the family” and “tour beautiful London.” I couldn’t say no: English hospitality and all that. But last time, their visit left me shaken for a week. Now, we finally had our own spacious, newly-renovated three-bedroom flat—a dream come true—and the pride of my life was our bedroom: deep blue walls, blackout curtains, plush carpets, and a bed with a mattress worth half an airplane. Paul and I had one rule: the bedroom was a no-go for guests. We offered the living room with a big fold-out sofa and, if necessary, Paul’s study with a comfortable daybed. When dinner wound down, Aunt Val dropped her bombshell: “My back’s shot from the journey. Can I have the bedroom tonight? I need a real mattress—my sciatica!” I explained gently but firmly: “The sofa is orthopedic, designed for guests, really comfortable.” But Aunt Val wouldn’t budge. “A sofa is a sofa. I’m not a young thing. I thought you’d give us your bedroom for the holidays. Family should have the best!” Lisa chimed in, “You’re healthy. What’s a couple nights on the sofa to you? It’s simply not right to make Mum sleep anywhere but the best bed, and with the boys in the room it would be easier for all of us.” I was stunned. “You want us to give up our bedroom and sleep in the lounge?” “You’re being dramatic,” Aunt Val snapped. “It’s only for a few nights! Guests deserve the best, that’s tradition. My mum taught me that, and hers before her. You must’ve forgotten your roots.” I held my ground: “Hospitality means good food and comfort, but our bed is personal. No one sleeps there but us. If you don’t like the sofa or daybed, I can help you find a nice hotel nearby.” Lisa was aghast: “You’d send family to a hotel? After we came all this way—with gifts? Do we mean nothing to you?” Aunt Val went further: “Your mother would be ashamed! You’re just like your father, selfish.” That was enough. “My mum was a saint, and she endured your demands for years. I am not her. I have boundaries. The bedroom is our space. End of discussion.” Lisa clanged her glass down. “Either you give us the bedroom, or we’re leaving tonight and telling everyone what sort of selfish Londoner you’ve become. Your choice.” Paul, silent until now, finally spoke, “We’re offering a warm home and comfortable places to sleep. Demanding our bed is unreasonable. If that’s what’s important to you, maybe it’s best you go.” Aunt Val leapt up, suddenly cured of all ailments. “That’s it! Lisa, pack the kids. We’re out! Better sleep at the train station than here!” Lisa looked panicked, clearly bluffing, but Aunt Val swept on: “We’ll go to Cynthia’s on the other side of town! At least she’s got heart, not just fancy food!” They stormed around collecting their gifts to take back (“You don’t deserve these towels!”), their home-pickled mushrooms, and children’s chocolates. Paul observed in silence—embarrassed by adults acting like spoiled kids. Within fifteen minutes they were gone, slamming the door so hard the plaster fell from the ceiling. The flat was blissfully silent; just the hum of the fridge and the tick of the clock. I buried my face in my hands—then suddenly started laughing. Relief. Paul grinned, “They even left the jellied meat on the balcony!” We both burst out: the treasured bowl was still ours. I imagined Cynthia preparing for the unexpected guests in her tiny council flat. Not our problem. We poured ourselves champagne and, for the first time that day, genuinely celebrated. “For us,” Paul toasted, “For our home. May it always welcome those who respect us.” “And for our boundaries,” I replied, clinking glasses. That night, lying in our beloved bedroom—on that “disputed” mattress—I felt pure bliss. I realised: you can’t please everyone, especially at your own expense. If the price of peace is offending pushy relatives, it’s more than worth it. The next morning, my phone buzzed with gossip—distorted tales of cruelty and abandonment. I ignored them, instead stretching out in my bed and smiling into a brand new day. For the record, we gave the jellied meat to the neighbourhood dogs. They were grateful and offered no critique. Unlike certain people, animals know how to appreciate kindness.