At first, her sweet little messages made it seem innocent enough. But slowly, her comments began to get uncomfortably personal—and that’s when I realized she wasn’t just watching the baby… she was watching me.
I had barely begun to recover from childbirth when Linda, my MIL, called.
If you’ve been there, you know that stage—still sore everywhere, moving feels like a marathon, and every trip to the bathroom feels like an Olympic event. I was in the middle of that haze when her voice came through the phone, thick with emotion.
“My heart is breaking that I can’t be there,” she said between sniffles.
My husband and I live on the East Coast, while Linda is all the way in California. Honestly? That arrangement suits me fine. Linda can be… overwhelming. I try to be polite and keep the peace, but our relationship works best in small doses—holidays once a year, the occasional call. Any closer, and I’m not sure my marriage would survive the strain.
“I just want to feel close to that precious little girl,” she continued. “Please, could you give me access to the baby monitor? I can’t visit often, and it would mean so much to be able to watch her grow from a distance.”
I immediately regretted telling her we had a monitor that streamed video through an app.
It felt invasive—like opening our nursery door at all hours and letting her wander in whenever she pleased. But my husband squeezed my hand and gave me that gentle smile.
“It’ll help her feel connected,” he whispered. “She just wants to see the baby.”
So I agreed. I convinced myself it was harmless. Sweet, even. Just a grandmother trying to stay connected to the grandchild she couldn’t yet hold in person.
In the beginning, it was sweet. She’d send messages like, “She looks like a little angel when she sleeps 😍,” or, “That stretch she just did with her arms?? My HEART.”
It actually made me smile. It felt nice to share those late-night moments with someone else, even if only virtually.
But soon, the tone shifted.
It became clear she wasn’t only watching Emma—she was watching me.
One night, after yet another 3 a.m. feeding, I sat in the nursery’s rocking chair, half-asleep, swaying in that zombie-like rhythm every new mom knows.
The next morning, I got a text: “Looks like you were up late!”
My stomach knotted. Linda and “boundaries” have never really been acquainted, but this was a new level.
After that, I started paying close attention to every comment she sent.
A few days later, I was changing Emma’s diaper, softly singing a lullaby my own mother used to sing to me—a private, tender moment.
Minutes later, another text: “Interesting choice of song. You always pick the sad ones, don’t you?”
I told myself not to overreact. She did have access to the camera, after all. But the unease in my gut told me something wasn’t right.
Then came the moment I couldn’t ignore.
I had just put Emma down when my sister Sarah burst into the nursery, phone in hand.
“Have you seen—” she started.
“Knock, please,” I interrupted, shutting the door behind me.
“This is too messed up for knocking. Have you seen what Linda posted?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, tugging my milk-stained robe tighter.
Sarah held out her phone.
It was a screenshot from the baby monitor—me in that same worn robe, breastfeeding Emma.
The caption made my blood run cold: “Should I tell my DIL she should invest in a nicer robe if she wants to stay attractive for my son? This one’s seen enough milk, if you ask me. 😳😅”
And that wasn’t all.
When I opened Linda’s Facebook page, I found more.
Emma crying, with the caption: “Some moms just don’t know how to soothe. 🙄”
Me yawning, looking utterly drained: “When you think a $400 baby swing will save your sleep but you still look like this 😬 #newmomlife.”
Even a picture of me reading beside the crib: “Doesn’t look like bonding to me.”
She hadn’t been cherishing these moments—she’d been broadcasting them for the world to see.
That night, I showed my husband. But instead of outrage, he shrugged.
“She’s just being observant,” he said. “It’s not that deep.”
“Not that deep? She posted a photo of me breastfeeding and critiqued my robe.”
“She’s probably just trying to be funny. We didn’t grow up with boundaries like that.”
Right. And apparently that meant my most intimate moments were public property now.
I didn’t argue further. Instead, I quietly went into the camera app and revoked her access.
The next morning, my husband’s phone buzzed: “Is something wrong with my Nanit app? The feed isn’t loading.”
When he realized I’d cut her off, he turned on me.
“You went behind my back? She feels cut off. You overreacted. This isn’t worth blowing up the family.”
“I didn’t know I needed permission to stop being spied on in my own house,” I shot back.
“If it bothers you so much, talk to her instead of being immature.”
“I tried talking to you last night, and you didn’t care.”
He stormed off to work.
Later, I told Sarah everything. She just nodded slowly. “Give me two days,” she said. “I’ve got a plan.”
That Saturday, Sarah sent a Zoom invite to the whole extended family for a “surprise virtual game night.” Everyone joined—Linda, my husband, my father-in-law, aunts, uncles.
Then Sarah shared her screen.
Linda’s Facebook page filled everyone’s view. First up: the breastfeeding photo, robe and all.
Sarah smiled sweetly. “Thanks for joining! Tonight we’re playing a game called Invasion or Support?”
She read the caption aloud. “Okay, family—what’s your vote? Invasion… or support?”
Silence. Just a grid of stunned faces.
“Let’s look at the next one,” Sarah continued cheerfully, scrolling to each post, reading every caption aloud.
Fifteen minutes in, Linda left the call.
The fallout was quick. My father-in-law messaged me: “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
Even my husband finally saw the reality. “I… didn’t realize it was that bad,” he admitted.
I told him plainly, “If you ever give her tech access again without asking me, you can sleep in the crib.”
Linda tried to smooth things over with a text: “It was just a joke. You’re overreacting. Generational differences.”
I didn’t respond. Some boundaries, once crossed, are never given another chance.
And if there’s one thing I learned, it’s this: love doesn’t turn your most vulnerable moments into public entertainment.