My husband gave away our baby’s nursery to his mom because she was “lonely and depressed.” I was shattered. But that night, when I walked past the nursery, I overheard my mother-in-law talking on the phone… and I realized she was far more cunning than I had ever imagined.
For the last two months, Evan and I had poured our hearts into our baby’s nursery like it was our second heartbeat. We wanted everything to be perfect. I painted the walls a soft, earthy sage green. I even hand-stenciled little clouds that looked like they were floating above the crib.
My back hurt for days after crouching and bending over to paint, but I didn’t care. I wanted our baby to dream under something beautiful.
When we finally assembled the crib, Evan’s eyes watered. He whispered, almost reverently:
“Our little family.”
I should’ve recorded that moment. Maybe not for memory—but for evidence.
A week later, during my routine check-up at the clinic, my phone buzzed. It was a message from Evan:
“Can we talk when you get home? Mom’s not doing great.”
My stomach sank.
When I got home, I found Evan pacing the kitchen like a restless animal.
“Okay, so here’s the thing,” he started, avoiding my eyes. “Mom called Dr. Wills. She’s been feeling lonely and depressed. He strongly recommended she stay close to family for a while.”
I set my purse down slowly. “How close?”
His hands fidgeted with everything in reach—the keys, his phone, even the salt shaker. “Well… I thought maybe she could use the nursery temporarily. Just until she stabilizes.”
I blinked at him. “Come again?”
“Think about it logically,” he said, suddenly sounding more confident. “Babies don’t sleep in cribs for months anyway. We can put a bassinet in our room. Mom needs comfort, and she’d be right here if we needed help.”
“You want to put your mother in our baby’s room?”
“Temporarily! She’s already… here.”
My heart thundered as I walked past him and headed straight to the nursery. My hand trembled on the door handle.
When I pushed it open, my breath caught.
Our rocking chair was gone. In its place stood a queen-sized bed covered in Lydia’s floral comforter. Her jewelry box sat arrogantly on the changing table. And there she was, unpacking her things while chatting on the phone.
When she saw me, she hung up quickly and smiled like she owned the place.
“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.”
Then, as if to twist the knife, she added, “Oh, and those little clouds on the wall—cute, but a bit childish for a guest room, don’t you think? I was just telling my friend Susan we might want to repaint with a more mature color palette.”
My voice cracked, but I stood firm. “It’s not a guest room. It’s temporary.”
“Of course, dear.” She patted my arm like I was a child. “We’ll see how things go.”
That night, at ten, our baby kicked me so hard it woke me up—almost like he knew his space had been stolen. I got up to find a heating pad, but as I passed the nursery, I froze. Lydia’s voice drifted through the cracked door.
“You should have seen her face when she walked in! Like someone had died!”
My blood ran cold.
“No, no—it was easier than I thought. I’m a good actress, you know? I told Evan that Dr. Wills said I was showing signs of depression. 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.”
My heart pounded so loudly I thought she’d hear it.
“The best part? She can’t say anything without looking heartless. What kind of daughter-in-law kicks out a depressed mother-in-law? I’ve got months before that baby comes, and by then, I’ll be so established here they’ll forget whose house this was first.”
I pressed my back against the hallway wall, trembling.
Then came the words that nearly made me collapse:
“Oh, trust me, Susan. I’ve been planning this for months. The minute she got pregnant, I knew I had to act fast. Once grandchildren arrive, old mothers become afterthoughts. But not this mother. Never!”
I stumbled back to our bedroom. Evan was reading peacefully, completely clueless.
“I need to tell you something,” I whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed.
He looked up. “What’s wrong?”
“Your mother just confessed to lying about her depression. I heard her on the phone.”
His brow furrowed. “That’s not… she wouldn’t.”
“She admitted it, Evan! Word for word, she said she conned you. She’s planning to stay so long we’ll forget this house was ours.”
He shook his head. “Anna, you must’ve misheard. Mom gets dramatic—”
“Dramatic? She literally said, ‘The doctor thing was genius.’ She conned you, Evan.”
He sighed. “Even if she exaggerated, she’s still struggling. We can’t just throw her out. She’s my mother.”
I stared at him, stunned. “Your pregnant wife tells you she’s been manipulated, and you defend the manipulator?”
“Anna, I—”
“Then what are you doing?”
He had no answer.
The next morning, I called my aunt Carla. She had the energy of a retired sheriff and the determination of a storm.
“We need proof,” she said, pulling out a baby monitor with audio recording. “She wants to play games? Let’s record her.”
That evening, Lydia sat comfortably in the nursery, phone in hand, and bragged:
“The nursery plan is working perfectly. Evan feels so guilty he’s practically my servant. Tomorrow, I’ll suggest we turn the basement into a nursery for ‘safety reasons.’ That way, this room stays mine.”
My jaw locked. That was it.
I showed Evan the recording the next morning. At first, he resisted, but when Lydia’s own voice bragged about faking depression, his face fell.
He confronted her that evening.
“Mom, it’s time to move to the guest room. Anna needs the nursery back.”
Her face twisted. “Darling, if you move me now, I could relapse. Dr. Wills said—”
I pulled out my phone. “Dr. Wills never said that. You did.”
I hit play. Lydia’s own words filled the kitchen.
Her face drained of color.
Evan’s voice hardened. “Pack your things. Two days. And you’ll stay in the guest room—no more tricks.”
She tried crying, accusing, even faking chest pains. But this time, it didn’t work.
Evan spent the next two days moving everything back. He reassembled the crib, hung the clouds, and set up the rocking chair.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered one night, holding a tiny onesie in his hands. “I’m so damn sorry.”
“Why did you believe her so easily?” I asked.
He looked broken. “Because saying no to her was never an option. Even as a kid, keeping her happy was my job.”
“What about keeping me happy? What about our baby?”
He put his hand on my belly. “This is my family now. I know that now.”
The morning Lydia left, my father came to “help with the transition.” His presence alone kept her from making a final scene.
“You’ll regret this,” she muttered at the door, but the fight was gone from her voice.
When she finally drove away, Evan wrapped his arms around me from behind as I stood in the nursery doorway.
The crib was back. The rocking chair was by the window. The clouds floated above it all, waiting for our baby to dream under them.
“Our baby’s room,” Evan whispered.
“Our baby’s room,” I echoed.
Some battles come when you least expect them. But I learned something that week: marriage isn’t about avoiding conflict—it’s about choosing the right battles and fighting them together.
