At eight months pregnant with our first child, Evan and I had been preparing our baby’s nursery with so much love. We painted the walls a calming sage green, carefully stenciled soft clouds across the ceiling, folded tiny onesies into drawers, and proudly assembled the crib that would hold our newborn.
That little room was our dream come to life — until one Thursday evening, everything shifted.
Evan’s “Solution”
Evan came home looking troubled.
“Mom’s not doing great,” he began, his tone heavy. “She said her doctor told her she’s slipping into depression because of loneliness. The doctor strongly recommended she be around loved ones right now.”
I nodded, already imagining some weekend visits or maybe prepping the guest room.
But then Evan rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “So… I got her a new bed. We set it up… in the nursery.”
My stomach dropped. “Babe, what?”
“She’ll just be here for a little while,” he said quickly. “The baby can sleep in our room the first six months. That’s pretty common. My mom needs us.”
I rushed to the nursery. The painted clouds still floated above, but the crib had been shoved to the side. Taking center stage now? A queen-sized bed. And on it, my mother-in-law Lydia, reclining comfortably, scrolling on her phone as though she owned the place.
A wave of frustration surged through me.
“This is temporary,” Evan whispered, slipping an arm around me.
“I’m literally about to give birth,” I murmured. “I need this room. I need you.”
He kissed my forehead, soothing. “It’s only for a short time. You’re strong. She’s fragile.”
Pretending to Be Polite
That night, I tossed and turned. The baby kicked against my ribs, reminding me of the ticking clock. I told myself to be patient, polite, understanding — maybe Lydia truly needed help.
But the unease wouldn’t leave me.
Around midnight, I got up to grab my heating pad from the hall closet. As I passed by the nursery, I noticed the door slightly ajar.
Then I heard Lydia’s voice.
The Call That Changed Everything
She was on the phone, her tone sharp and mocking — a far cry from the “fragile” woman Evan had described.
“It was so easy to persuade my son,” she said, a smug laugh following. “Pfft. I’m a good actress, you know? My DIL has no idea about my next step.”
My heart stopped.
What “next step”?
I froze, straining to catch every word.
“She thinks I’m depressed. Please. I’ll have this room for myself. Once the baby comes, I’ll make sure he knows where he belongs — with me. She’s too weak to handle it.”
Her words stabbed me like knives.
Drawing the Line
I stumbled back to my room, trembling. This wasn’t just overstepping — this was a plan. She wanted to replace me, to insert herself as the center of Evan’s and my baby’s life.
By morning, I had made my decision.
When Evan woke up, I handed him my phone, where I’d recorded every word of Lydia’s late-night call. His face drained of color as he listened.
“She… she lied to me,” he muttered, horrified.
“Yes,” I said firmly. “And you let her into the one space I needed most. The nursery isn’t hers. The baby isn’t hers. If she stays, I go. Choose.”
Taking Back the Nursery
Evan didn’t hesitate. That evening, he and I dismantled the queen bed together, piece by piece, while Lydia protested furiously from the doorway.
“You can’t do this to me!” she cried. “I need to be close!”
“No, Mom,” Evan said coldly. “You need help — but not at the expense of my wife and child. You lied. And you crossed a line.”
By nightfall, the bed was gone, the crib was back in place, and Lydia had stormed out with her suitcase.
My Resolve
I sat in the rocking chair, running my hand over the edge of the crib, breathing a sigh of relief.
The nursery was ours again — mine, Evan’s, and our baby’s.
And I knew one thing for certain: I’d protect my child’s space, my role, and my family from anyone — even Lydia.
Because the clouds on the wall weren’t painted for her.
They were painted for my baby.