When my mother-in-law begged me for access to our baby monitor so she could “feel closer” to her grandchild, I hesitated. But eventually, I agreed—thinking it would be harmless. At first, her sweet messages made it seem like I’d done the right thing. Then the comments started to get personal… and I realized she wasn’t just watching the baby. She was watching me.
It all started barely a few weeks after giving birth. I was still in that stage where your body feels like it’s been run over by a truck, when even walking to the bathroom feels like a marathon.
That’s when my phone rang. It was my mother-in-law, Linda.
Her voice was thick with emotion.
“My heart is breaking that I can’t be there,” she sniffled.
Linda lived in California, while my husband and I were all the way on the East Coast. Honestly, the distance was… kind of a blessing. She can be a lot. I try to be kind, but between the once-a-year holiday visits and occasional phone calls, that’s all I can really handle. Any closer and I’m not sure our marriage would survive it.
“I just want to feel close to that precious little girl,” Linda continued. “Please, could you just give me access to the baby monitor? I can’t visit often, and it would mean so much if I could watch her grow despite the distance.”
And here’s where I made my first mistake—I’d once mentioned we had a Wi-Fi camera with an app.
The thought of her having a 24/7 view into our nursery made my stomach twist. It felt like opening our front door and just… leaving it open.
But my husband gave me that gentle smile and squeezed my hand.
“It’ll make her feel connected,” he whispered. “She just wants to see the baby, that’s all.”
So, I said yes. I told myself it was sweet—just a loving grandma wanting to see her granddaughter.
At first, it was sweet. She’d send me messages like:
“She looks like a little angel when she sleeps 😍”
or
“That stretch she did with her arms?? My HEART.”
It made me smile. It almost felt like I had company in those lonely 3 a.m. feedings.
But then… things started feeling off.
One night, I was in the rocking chair, half-asleep, breastfeeding for the third time since midnight. The next morning, Linda texted:
“Looks like you were up late!”
I froze. She wasn’t just watching Emma. She was watching me.
After that, I started paying attention.
A few days later, I was changing Emma’s diaper and softly singing a sad lullaby my mom used to sing to me—a private, tender moment. Minutes later, Linda texted:
“Interesting choice of song. You always go for the sad ones, don’t you?”
That made me uncomfortable, but I told myself maybe I was overthinking.
Until the proof hit me like a slap.
I had just put Emma down when my sister, Sarah, rushed into the nursery, phone in hand.
“Have you seen—”
I cut her off, pushing her back out.
“You could knock, you know?”
Sarah’s eyes were wide.
“This is way too messed up to waste time knocking. Have you seen what Linda just posted?”
She showed me her phone. My heart stopped.
It was a screenshot from our baby monitor—me, in my ratty robe, breastfeeding Emma. The caption?
“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. 😳😅”
I felt sick.
I opened Facebook on my own phone. And it wasn’t just one post.
- A photo of Emma crying:
“Some moms just don’t get how to soothe. 🙄”
- A picture of me yawning, exhausted:
“When you think a $400 baby swing will save your sleep but you still look like this 😬 #newmomlife.”
- One of me reading beside the crib:
“Doesn’t look like bonding to me.”
She wasn’t watching us with love. She was broadcasting my most private moments for entertainment.
That night, I told my husband everything, showing him the posts. His reaction?
“She’s just being observant. It’s not that deep.”
“Not that deep? She posted a photo of me breastfeeding and insulted me!”
“She’s probably just trying to be funny,” he said. “We didn’t grow up with boundaries like that.”
Right—so my body and my parenting were now public property?
I didn’t argue further. I simply went into the baby monitor app and revoked her access. No announcement.
The next morning, my husband’s phone buzzed.
“Is something wrong with my Nanit app? The feed isn’t loading,” Linda texted.
When he realized what I’d done, he turned on me.
“You went behind my back? You’re cutting her off over nothing. You’re overreacting.”
“I didn’t realize I needed permission to stop being spied on in my own house,” I shot back.
We fought, and he left for work angry.
Later, Sarah came over. I told her everything, and she just nodded.
“Give me two days,” she said. “I have a plan to teach them both a lesson.”
Saturday night, she sent out a Zoom invite for a surprise family game night. Everyone joined—Linda, my husband, my in-laws, aunts, uncles.
Sarah greeted everyone cheerfully.
“Thanks for joining! Tonight, we’re playing a game called ‘Invasion or Support?’”
Then she shared her screen—Linda’s Facebook page. Right there was the robe photo, caption and all.
“Here’s the first one,” Sarah said. “Invasion or support?”
Silence. Just shocked faces in the Zoom gallery.
Sarah clicked to the next post, and the next—reading each caption out loud, asking the same question.
Fifteen minutes in, Linda quietly left the call.
Afterwards, my father-in-law sent me a private message:
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know she was doing this.”
My husband finally saw the truth.
“I… I didn’t know it was that bad.”
I looked him dead in the eye.
“If you ever give her tech access again without asking me, you can sleep in the crib.”
Linda later texted me:
“It was just a joke. You’re taking this too seriously. Generational differences.”
I didn’t reply. Some boundaries, once crossed, never get a second chance—especially when they involve my child, my body, and my home.
And Sarah? She’s the real hero here. She showed everyone exactly what invasion looks like when you strip away excuses.
Because real love doesn’t take your most vulnerable moments and turn them into a show.