My husband gave away our baby’s nursery to his mom because she was “lonely and depressed.” I felt like someone had ripped my heart out. But that night, when I walked past the nursery and overheard my mother-in-law on the phone, I realized she had been planning something far more cunning behind my back.
For the last two months, my husband Evan and I had poured our hearts into the nursery. It wasn’t just a room—it felt like we were building a little world for our baby.
I had painted the walls a soft sage green, the kind that felt calm and safe. On the wall above the crib, I hand-stenciled floating clouds. My back screamed every night after bending over and painting, but I kept going.
I wanted our child’s first dreams to happen under something beautiful.
When we finally finished putting together the crib, Evan stood back, tears glistening in his eyes.
“Our little family,” he whispered.
I should have recorded that moment… not for the memory, but as evidence.
A few days later, during a routine check-up at my clinic, my phone buzzed. It was a message from Evan.
Evan: “Can we talk when you get home? Mom’s not doing great.”
I felt uneasy instantly.
When I came home, Evan was pacing in the kitchen like he was trying to wear a hole in the floor.
“Okay, so here’s the thing,” he began nervously, avoiding my eyes. “Mom called Dr. Wills. She’s been feeling really 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 the salt shaker, then his phone, then his keys. He couldn’t keep his hands still.
“Well… I thought maybe she could use the nursery temporarily. Just until she stabilizes.”
I blinked. “Come again?”
“Think about it logically,” he rushed on, gaining confidence in his stupidity. “Babies don’t even sleep in cribs for the first few months. We can just put a bassinet in our room. And Mom—well, she needs comfort right now. Plus, she’d be here if we needed help.”
I stared at him like he’d grown three heads. “You want to put your mother in OUR baby’s room?”
“Temporarily!” he insisted. Then he swallowed hard. “She’s… already here.”
My heart dropped.
I stormed down the hall, hand trembling as I turned the nursery doorknob.
And there it was.
The crib was gone, shoved into a corner like an afterthought. In its place stood a queen-sized bed covered in my MIL Lydia’s floral comforter. Her jewelry box sat proudly on the changing table.
And Lydia? She was unpacking her bags, phone pressed to her ear.
“Oh, she’s here!” she said brightly. “I’ve got to go, Susan.” She hung up and grinned at me. “Anna! Don’t you just love what we’ve done with the space?”
My throat tightened. “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.” Then she glanced at the clouds I had painted and smirked. “Oh, by the way, those clouds are cute… but don’t you think they’re a little childish for a guest room? I was telling Susan we might want a more mature color palette.”
“It’s not a guest room,” I said through clenched teeth. “It’s temporary.”
“Of course, dear.” She patted my arm like I was the child. “We’ll see how things go.”
I turned and found Evan standing in the doorway, guilt written all over his face.
“When did this happen?” I demanded.
He cleared his throat. “This afternoon. While you were at Dr. Murphy’s office.”
My prenatal appointment. The one he’d skipped because Lydia needed him to “check a weird noise in her car.”
My blood boiled. “You moved our baby’s furniture while I was being checked for preeclampsia? You could’ve put her in the guest room.”
“Anna, please,” Evan said, voice desperate. “The guest room isn’t comfortable. She needed…”
“I understand perfectly,” I snapped, shoving past him. Lydia’s satisfied smile burned into me as I stormed into our bedroom.
Evan followed me like a guilty child. “She’s struggling, Anna. She cried on the phone. What was I supposed to do?”
“I’m eight months pregnant, Evan! I can’t even tie my shoes without help. I need that room ready for our baby.”
“We have time,” he muttered.
“No, Evan. YOU have time. I have a baby about to claw his way out of me!”
He sank onto the bed. “It’s temporary. Just a few months.”
I looked at him, the man who swore he’d put me and our baby first, and all I could say was, “Fine. But don’t expect me to pretend I’m okay with this.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Around 10 p.m., I got up for a heating pad. As I passed the nursery, voices drifted through the door.
Lydia’s voice.
“You should have seen her face when she walked in!” she laughed. “Like someone had died!”
I froze.
“No, no, it was easier than I thought,” she continued. “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.”
My chest tightened.
“The best part? She can’t say anything without looking cruel. What kind of daughter-in-law kicks out her depressed MIL? By the time the baby comes, I’ll be so settled here they won’t even remember whose house this was.”
My pulse hammered.
“Oh trust me, Susan,” Lydia whispered smugly. “I’ve been planning this since the day Anna got pregnant. Grandchildren make old mothers irrelevant—unless you act fast. I’ll never be irrelevant.”
My vision blurred.
“And that whole doctor story? Genius, right? I just called about seasonal depression and twisted his words into my favor. Evan ate it up.”
I stumbled back, shaking. Evan sat in bed with his tablet, looking clueless and calm.
I sat down hard. “Evan, I need to tell you something.”
He looked up, concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“Your mother just admitted to lying about her depression. She planned all of this. I heard her.”
“That’s not… she wouldn’t.”
“She said—and I quote—‘By the time the baby comes, I’ll be so established here they won’t even remember whose house this was.’”
Evan frowned. “Mom gets dramatic when she gossips with Susan. You probably misheard.”
“No, Evan. She conned you. She used a fake medical excuse to steal our nursery.”
He rubbed his temples. “Even if she exaggerated, she’s still struggling. I can’t just throw her out. She’s my mother.”
I stared at him, my stomach churning. “So when your pregnant wife tells you she’s been manipulated, your first instinct is to defend the manipulator?”
“Anna, that’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then what ARE you doing?”
Silence.
The next morning, I called my Aunt Carla. She was part retired sheriff, part choir director, and all backbone.
“We need proof,” she said, pulling out a baby monitor with recording. “She wants to play games? Let’s play.”
We set it up in the nursery before Lydia got back from her latte run.
“This feels sneaky,” I muttered.
“Honey,” Aunt Carla said, “sometimes the truth needs a little help being heard.”
That night, while Evan was working late, Lydia stretched out on her new bed, phone in hand.
“The nursery plan is working perfectly,” she bragged. “Evan feels so guilty he’s practically tripping over himself. And Anna? She looks like she’s dying inside, but she can’t complain without looking selfish. Tomorrow I’m suggesting we turn the basement into the nursery. For ‘safety reasons,’ of course.”
My jaw dropped. She was going to take even more.
I downloaded the recording immediately.
The next morning, I put my foot down at breakfast. “We’re going to couples therapy, Evan. Today.”
“Anna, I think you’re overreacting—”
“Your other option is explaining to my father why his pregnant daughter is moving back home.”
That shut him up.
In therapy, Dr. Patterson asked Evan, “Why do you feel responsible for your mother’s emotions?”
“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “She raised me alone. If she’s upset, it’s my job to fix it.”
“And what about Anna’s wellbeing?” she asked.
He opened his mouth, then shut it.
Dr. Patterson’s voice was gentle but firm. “Evan, you owe your mother love and respect. But not your marriage.”
On the drive home, silence filled the car. Finally, I said, “Ask your mother to move into the guest room. Tonight. Or I’m leaving.”
That evening, Evan told Lydia in the kitchen, “Mom, it’s time to move into the guest room.”
Her eyes widened. “But darling, moving now could trigger a relapse. Dr. Wills said—”
I hit play on my phone.
Lydia’s own voice rang out: “The doctor thing was genius. Evan practically begged me to move in!”
Her face went pale. “That’s… out of context.”
“Mom, stop,” Evan said flatly.
“Pack your things. Two days. Guest room or out.”
Lydia tried everything—crying, accusing me of poisoning Evan, even fake chest pains at the ER. But the truth was out.
Two days later, Evan rebuilt the nursery piece by piece, guilt etched on his face.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
“Why did you believe her so easily?” I asked.
“Because saying no to her has never been an option. But I see now—that’s not fair to you. Or our baby.”
When Lydia finally left, escorted by my father for good measure, the house felt lighter.
I stood in the nursery doorway. The crib was back. The rocking chair was back. The painted clouds waited patiently for our son.
Evan wrapped his arms around me. “Our baby’s room,” he whispered.
“Our baby’s room,” I agreed.
And for the first time in weeks, I finally felt like it really was.