I was barely a week into new motherhood when my mother-in-law, Linda, called me out of the blue.
You know that stage right after childbirth—where your body feels like it’s been through a hurricane, where walking to the bathroom feels like running a marathon, and where you’re running purely on adrenaline and love? That’s where I was when I heard her voice over the phone, thick with emotion.
“My heart is breaking that I can’t be there,” she sniffled.
Linda lived in California. My husband and I were all the way on the East Coast. Honestly? That distance had always been a blessing in disguise. Linda was… a lot. I tried to keep the peace, but our relationship thrived best when buffered by several states and a few time zones.
She went on, her voice soft and pleading: “I just want to feel close to that precious little girl. 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 up despite the distance.”
And that’s when I cursed myself for ever mentioning the fancy baby monitor app we had.
Giving her access felt like inviting someone into our nursery at all hours of the day and night. But then my husband, ever the peacekeeper, squeezed my hand and gave me that gentle smile of his.
“It’ll make her feel connected,” he whispered. “She just wants to see the baby, that’s all.”
So, against my instincts, I said yes. I told myself it would be harmless. Sweet, even. Just a doting grandma, watching her granddaughter from afar.
Oh, how wrong I was.
At first, it was exactly what I’d hoped for. She’d send messages like: “She looks like a little angel when she sleeps 😍” or “That stretch she did with her arms?? My HEART.”
It was almost comforting—someone else witnessing the tiny, perfect moments of my sleepless nights. But then… her messages started feeling different.
One night, after my third middle-of-the-night feeding, I collapsed into the rocking chair, half-asleep while nursing. The next morning, I got a text from her: “Looks like you were up late!”
My stomach sank. She wasn’t just watching the baby. She was watching me.
A few days later, while changing Emma’s diaper, I softly sang a lullaby my mom used to sing to me. It was a personal, tender moment. Minutes later, Linda texted: “Interesting choice of song. You always go for the sad ones, don’t you?”
I brushed it off—until the proof slapped me in the face.
I’d just put Emma down for a nap when my sister Sarah stormed into the nursery, phone in hand.
“You could knock, you know?” I said, ushering her out.
She didn’t even acknowledge my comment. “This is way too messed up to waste time knocking. Have you seen what Linda just posted?”
“What?” I asked, clutching my milk-stained robe.
Sarah turned her phone toward me. It was a Facebook post—a screenshot from the baby monitor. There I was, in that very same 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. 😳😅”
My blood ran cold. And that wasn’t the only one.
There was Emma crying with the caption: “Some moms just don’t get how to soothe.🙄”
There was me yawning beside the crib: “When you think a $400 baby swing will save your sleep but you still look like this 😬 #newmomlife.”
And me reading quietly: “Doesn’t look like bonding to me.”
Linda hadn’t been sharing out of love—she’d been broadcasting my most vulnerable moments for public commentary.
That night, I showed everything to my husband. He glanced at the posts and shrugged.
“She’s just being observant. It’s not that deep.”
I stared at him. “Not that deep? She posted a photo of me breastfeeding and said I needed a new robe so you’d still find me attractive.”
“She’s probably just trying to be funny. We didn’t grow up with boundaries like that.”
Right. And apparently that meant my body, my moments, and my child were now fair game for public viewing.
I stopped talking and quietly revoked Linda’s camera access from the app. No announcement. No warning.
The next morning, Linda texted my husband: “Is something wrong with my Nanit app? The feed isn’t loading.”
My husband turned on me instantly.
“You went behind my back? She feels cut off. You overreacted. This isn’t worth blowing up the family.”
“I didn’t realize I needed permission to stop being spied on in my own house,” I shot back.
“If it bugs you so much, why don’t you just talk to her instead of being so immature?”
“I tried talking to you last night, and you didn’t care.”
He left for work furious. I was still fuming when Sarah came by later. She listened, then smirked. “Give me two days. I have a plan.”
Two days later, Sarah invited the whole family to a “surprise virtual game night.” Everyone logged in—Linda, my husband, aunts, even my father-in-law.
Sarah grinned and shared her screen. On it? Linda’s Facebook page, complete with the breastfeeding photo.
“Thanks for joining, everyone! Tonight, we’re going to play a game called Invasion or Support?” Sarah announced.
She read the caption aloud, then asked, “What do you say? Invasion or support?”
Silence. Just shocked faces staring back.
One by one, Sarah displayed every invasive post Linda had made. Less than fifteen minutes in, Linda dropped out of the call.
That night, my father-in-law messaged me privately: “I’m so sorry. I had no idea she was doing this.”
Even my husband’s face softened. “I… I didn’t know it was that bad.”
I looked him straight in the eye. “If you ever give her tech access again without asking me first, you can sleep in the crib.”
Linda sent me one last text: “It was just a joke. You’re taking this too seriously. Generational differences.”
I left her on read. Some lines you don’t get to cross twice. Not with my child, not with my body, and not in my own home.
And I’ll say this—Sarah turned out to be the hero in all this. She made them face the truth without me having to scream it. She reminded everyone of something Linda seemed to forget:
Love doesn’t turn your most private moments into entertainment.