My husband gave away our baby’s nursery to his mother because she was “lonely and depressed.” I was shattered. But that night, when I walked past the nursery and overheard my mother-in-law talking on the phone, I realized she was more cunning than I ever thought possible.
For two months, Evan and I had poured our hearts into that nursery. It wasn’t just a room—it was a promise, a heartbeat, the place where our family’s future would begin. I painted the walls a soft, earthy sage green with my swollen belly brushing against the ladder. My back screamed with every stroke, but I kept going because I wanted our baby to dream under something beautiful.
I hand-stenciled little white clouds above the crib. They looked like they were floating, waiting to guard our child while he slept.
When we finished assembling the crib, Evan’s eyes got misty. He touched the rail softly, whispering,
“Our little family.”
I should’ve recorded that moment—because later, I would need proof he once cared about us this way.
It all fell apart one Thursday. I was at my routine check-up when my phone buzzed. It was Evan:
“Can we talk when you get home? Mom’s not doing great.”
My heart sank. I knew that tone.
When I walked into the kitchen, Evan was pacing like a nervous animal.
“Okay, so here’s the thing,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “Mom called Dr. Wills. She’s been feeling lonely and depressed. He strongly recommended that she stay close to family for a while.”
I put my purse down slowly. “How close?”
His hands fumbled with his keys, then his phone, then the salt shaker. “I thought… maybe she could use the nursery temporarily. Just until she stabilizes.”
I stared at him. “Come again?”
“Think about it logically,” he said, his voice gaining confidence like he actually believed this madness. “Babies don’t even use cribs right away. We can keep a bassinet in our room. Mom needs comfort, and she’ll be here if we need help.”
“You want to put your mother in OUR baby’s room?”
“Temporarily! She’s already… here.”
My chest tightened. I pushed past him, my hands trembling as I turned the nursery door handle.
And then my heart broke.
The rocking chair was gone, replaced by a queen-size bed covered with Lydia’s floral comforter. Her jewelry box sat proudly on top of the changing table. She looked up from unpacking, her phone pressed to her ear.
“Oh, she’s here! Gotta go, Susan,” she chirped, hanging up. Then she smiled at me as if she hadn’t just stolen my baby’s first home. “Anna! Don’t you love what we’ve done with the space?”
I forced my voice to work. “Where’s the crib, Lydia?”
“Evan moved it to the corner for now. Don’t worry, sweetie, I won’t be in your way.”
Her eyes flicked to my clouds on the wall. “Oh, and by the way, those clouds are cute, but a bit childish for a guest room, don’t you think? I was telling Susan we should consider a more mature palette.”
“It’s not a guest room,” I snapped, trying to stay calm. “It’s temporary.”
“Of course, dear.” She patted my arm like I was the child. “We’ll see how things go.”
I turned. Evan was standing in the doorway, looking like a boy caught stealing candy.
“When did this happen?”
He cleared his throat. “This afternoon. While you were at Dr. Murphy’s office.”
My prenatal appointment. The one he skipped to “check a weird noise” in his mom’s car.
“You moved our baby’s furniture while I was being checked for preeclampsia,” I said coldly. “You could’ve put her in the guest room.”
“Anna, the guest room isn’t comfortable. She needs—”
“I understand perfectly,” I cut him off. I stormed past Lydia’s smug smile and locked myself in our bedroom.
That night, around 10 p.m., our baby kicked me so hard I shot awake. My back ached, so I went looking for the heating pad. That’s when I passed the nursery and froze.
Through the cracked door, Lydia’s voice drifted out.
“You should’ve seen her face when she walked in! Like someone had died!”
My heart thudded.
“No, no, it was easier than I thought. I told Evan 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.” She laughed. “His wife has no idea about my next step.”
My knees almost gave out.
“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 that baby comes, I’ll be so settled in, they’ll forget whose house this was first.”
I pressed my back to the wall, breathing hard.
“Oh, Susan,” she continued smugly, “I’ve been planning this since she got pregnant. The doctor trick was genius, right? I just called and asked a few questions about depression. I amaze myself sometimes.”
I stumbled back to our bedroom. Evan looked up from his tablet, peaceful, clueless.
“I need to tell you something,” I whispered.
When I told him what I’d heard, he shook his head. “That’s not… she wouldn’t.”
“She said, and I quote, ‘By the time the baby comes, I’ll be so established they’ll forget whose house this was first.’”
“Anna, maybe you misheard. Mom gets dramatic when she gossips…”
“She conned you, Evan! She lied about being depressed just to steal the nursery!”
“Even if she exaggerated, she’s still struggling. She’s my mother.”
I stared at him. “Your pregnant wife tells you she’s been manipulated, and your response is to defend the manipulator?”
He had no answer.
The next morning, I called Aunt Carla—my mom’s sister, a woman who could scare a bear into apologizing. She showed up with a baby monitor that had audio recording.
“We need proof,” she said firmly. “She wants to play games? We’ll press record.”
We hid the monitor in the nursery before Lydia came back from her morning latte run. That night, I watched the feed on my phone as Lydia sprawled on the bed, filing her nails.
“The nursery plan is working perfectly,” she purred. “Evan feels guilty enough to do whatever I ask. Tomorrow, I’ll suggest moving the nursery to the basement. It’s colder there, but I’ll tell them it’s ‘safer.’ That’ll buy me more time in this room.”
I nearly dropped the phone.
I saved the recording. The next morning, over breakfast, I told Evan, “We’re going to therapy today. Already booked it.”
“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.
At therapy, Dr. Patterson cut straight through Evan’s excuses.
“You’ve put your mother’s needs above your wife’s. Why?”
“She raised me alone. I owe her.”
“You owe her respect and love,” Dr. Patterson said, “not your marriage.”
Evan had no words.
On the drive home, I gave him an ultimatum. “Either she moves to the guest room tonight, or I move to my dad’s.”
That evening, Evan finally confronted Lydia.
“Mom, it’s time you moved to the guest room. Anna needs the nursery.”
Lydia gasped dramatically. “But darling, I’m finally stable here. Moving me now could trigger a relapse! Dr. Wills said—”
I hit play on my phone. Her voice filled the room:
“The doctor thing was genius, right? Poor Evan practically begged me to move in!”
Evan went pale. “Is that you, Mom?”
Lydia lunged at me, but Evan caught her wrist. “Stop.”
Her lies crumbled. She begged, cried, accused me of poisoning him against her. She even faked chest pains until the ER declared her perfectly fine.
Two days later, Evan was reassembling the crib, moving furniture back into place. His voice cracked. “I’m sorry, Anna. I thought helping her was helping us.”
“Your family is right here,” I said, resting my hand on my belly. “This is your family now.”
He nodded, eyes glassy. “I know that now.”
Lydia left the next morning under my father’s stern watch. At the door, Evan told her, “We’ll revisit visits after the baby’s born. When you’re ready to respect our boundaries.”
“You’ll regret this,” she muttered, but the fight was gone.
When she was gone, I stood in the doorway of the nursery. The crib was back, the rocking chair was by the window, the little clouds still floated above.
Evan wrapped his arms around me.
“Our baby’s room,” he whispered.
“Our baby’s room,” I echoed.
That night, I finally felt peace.
Because I realized something important: Marriage isn’t about avoiding conflict. It’s about fighting the right battles—side by side.