My husband gave away our baby’s nursery to his mom because she was “lonely and depressed.” I was shattered. But then, late that night, I passed by the nursery door and overheard what my mother-in-law had really been planning. That was the moment I realized she was far more cunning than I had ever imagined.
For two months straight, my husband and I worked on the nursery like it was our heart outside of our bodies. Every detail mattered. I painted the walls a soft sage green, and even though my back screamed in pain, I stenciled fluffy little clouds across the top of the wall. I wanted our baby to sleep under something magical, something made with love.
When we finally finished putting the crib together, Evan’s eyes watered.
He whispered, “Our little family.”
I wish I’d recorded that moment—because later, I would’ve needed evidence of the man he used to be.
One Thursday, while I was at my prenatal check-up, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Evan:
“Can we talk when you get home? Mom’s not doing great.”
My heart sank.
When I walked in, I found Evan pacing the kitchen like he was rehearsing a speech.
“Okay, so here’s the thing,” he started, not meeting my eyes. “Mom called Dr. Wills. She’s been feeling lonely and depressed. He strongly suggested she stay close to family for a while.”
I set my purse down slowly. “How close?”
Evan fiddled with everything in sight—the keys, the salt shaker, his phone. “I thought maybe she could stay in the nursery temporarily. Just until she stabilizes.”
I blinked. “Come again?”
“Think about it logically,” he said, almost sounding proud of himself. “Babies don’t even sleep in cribs for months. We’ll keep a bassinet in our room, and Mom will be here if we need help. It makes sense.”
“You want to put your mother in our baby’s room?”
“Temporarily! She’s already here.”
I didn’t even answer him. I stormed down the hall, my hands trembling, and turned the nursery door handle.
The sight made my stomach twist.
Our rocking chair was gone, replaced by a queen-sized bed. My mother-in-law Lydia’s floral comforter spread across it like a warning flag. Her jewelry box sat arrogantly on the changing table. She was on the phone, laughing.
“Oh, she’s here! Gotta go, Susan.” She hung up, smiling like a cat. “Anna! Don’t you love what we’ve done with the space?”
I could barely breathe. “Where’s the crib, Lydia?”
“Oh, Evan moved it to the corner for now. Don’t worry, sweetie, I won’t be in your way.” She smirked. “By the way, those little clouds? Cute, but maybe too childish for a guest room. I was telling Susan we might want a more mature palette.”
I snapped, “It’s not a guest room. It’s temporary.”
“Of course, dear.” She patted my arm like I was a silly child. “We’ll see how things go.”
Evan hovered in the doorway, looking guilty.
“When did this happen?” I asked him.
He cleared his throat. “This afternoon… while you were at Dr. Murphy’s.”
My prenatal appointment. The one he skipped because Lydia needed him to “check a weird noise in her car.”
“You moved our baby’s furniture while I was being tested for preeclampsia?” My voice cracked. “Why not the guest room?”
“The guest room is uncomfortable,” he muttered. “Anna, she needs this…”
“No, Evan. I need this. I’m eight months pregnant. I can barely tie my shoes. I pee every twenty minutes. I need that room ready.”
He sighed. “It’s temporary.”
“No, Evan. It’s betrayal.”
That night, around 10 p.m., I couldn’t sleep. My son kicked hard, almost like he knew something was wrong. I got up to grab a heating pad.
As I walked past the nursery, I froze. Lydia’s voice floated through the door.
“You should have seen her face when she walked in! Like someone died!” she laughed.
My heart hammered.
“No, no, it was easier than I thought. I’m a good actress, you know? I told Evan that Dr. Wills said I was depressed. Poor boy practically begged me to move in! Men are so simple when you know which buttons to push. His wife has no idea about my next step.”
I pressed my back against the wall, shaking.
“The best part? She can’t say anything without looking heartless. What kind of daughter-in-law kicks out a depressed mother-in-law? By the time the baby comes, I’ll be so established here they’ll forget whose house it is.”
My vision blurred.
“Oh, Susan, I’ve been planning this since the moment she got pregnant. Once grandchildren arrive, mothers like me get tossed aside. Not this time. Never!”
I stumbled back to our bedroom, clutching the heating pad like a shield. Evan looked up from his tablet.
“Anna? What’s wrong?”
“Your mother just admitted she lied about her depression. She planned this whole thing.”
He frowned. “That’s… she wouldn’t.”
“She said—and I quote—‘By the time the baby comes, I’ll be so established they’ll forget whose house it was first.’”
He shook his head. “Mom gets dramatic with Susan. You probably misheard…”
“No, Evan. She conned you. She stole our baby’s room.”
He rubbed his face. “Even if she exaggerated, she’s still struggling. We can’t just throw her out. She’s my mother.”
I stared at him. “Your pregnant wife tells you she’s being manipulated, and you defend the manipulator?”
He went silent.
The next morning, I called backup. My Aunt Carla—half choir director, half sheriff—showed up with a baby monitor that could record.
“She wants to play games?” Aunt Carla said, setting it up. “Then let’s press record.”
That evening, I watched from the bedroom as Lydia sprawled on the bed like she owned it.
“The nursery plan is working perfectly,” she bragged into her phone. “Evan feels so guilty, he’s bending over backward. I’m going to redecorate piece by piece, starting with those clouds. Tomorrow I’ll suggest the basement for the nursery—for ‘safety reasons.’ It’ll be mine forever.”
I downloaded the recording. This time, Evan wouldn’t be able to deny it.
The next day over breakfast, I dropped the bomb. “We’re going to therapy. Today.”
“Anna, come on…”
“Your other option is explaining to my dad why his eight-months-pregnant daughter is moving back home.”
He paled. He knew my dad.
At therapy, Dr. Patterson listened quietly, then asked Evan, “Why do you feel responsible for your mother’s emotions?”
“Because… she raised me alone. I owe her.”
“You owe her respect,” Dr. Patterson said. “Not your marriage. Not your wife’s wellbeing.”
Evan went quiet.
That night, I told him flat out: “Either your mother moves to the guest room, or I move to my dad’s.”
So he confronted her. “Mom, you need to move to the guest room. Anna needs the nursery.”
Her face twisted. “But darling, I’m finally feeling stable here! Moving me now could trigger a relapse. Dr. Wills said—”
I hit play on the recording. Lydia’s voice filled the room: “Poor boy practically begged me to move in!”
Evan froze. “Is that you, Mom?”
Her face drained of color. “That’s out of context…”
He stopped her cold. “Enough. Pack your things. Two days.”
She tried tears, accusations, even fake chest pains. Nothing worked.
Evan spent the next two days rebuilding the nursery like a man making amends.
“I’m sorry,” he said while tightening the crib screws. “I thought taking care of her was the same as taking care of us.”
“Your family is right here,” I said, pointing to my belly. “This is your family now.”
Lydia left soon after, my father’s intimidating presence ensuring no more games.
When she was gone, I stood in the nursery doorway. The crib was back. The rocking chair by the window. The clouds waited quietly for our son.
Evan wrapped his arms around me. “Our baby’s room,” he whispered.
“Our baby’s room,” I agreed.
And this time, it truly felt like ours.