Yoga, chamomile tea, long sleeps — just like in the magazines.
But life had other plans.
And that plan was called Lorraine.
My mother-in-law.
She had always been… well, let’s say, slightly intrusive.
From the moment I married Evan, she treated me like a temporary guest in her son’s life.
She would “accidentally” call me by his ex’s name.
She would make comments like, ‘Some women gain weight before they even test positive for pregnancy.’
You know, those kind of cute jokes.
I tried to remain polite.
Evan begged me to be patient. ‘She’ll soften up,’ he said.
She didn’t soften up.
It only got worse.
Especially after we told her I was pregnant.
She smiled — stiffly and insincerely.
She hugged me with such awkwardness, as if it were a duty, not a joy.
And then she said, ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’
At first, it was little things.
She brought ‘gifts’ for the baby: expired formula, used bodysuits with stains.
She said she wanted to help, but the passive aggression was obvious.
And then there was that herbal tea.
One afternoon, she came to visit while Evan was at work.
She brought a thermos and insisted that I try a special tea ‘for pregnant women.’
She watched me closely as I took a sip.
It was bitter and earthy — an unfamiliar taste.
‘Chamomile and raspberry leaves,’ she said. ‘My grandmother swore by it.’
Later that night, I felt a strange tension in my stomach.
Mild cramps.
Not much, but enough for me to start Googling like crazy.
And then I saw this: raspberry leaf tea is not recommended in the first trimester as it can stimulate uterine contractions.
And I was 9 weeks pregnant.
The next day, I talked to her about it.
She laughed. ‘Oh, please, women have been drinking this for centuries. Don’t be so dramatic.’
Evan was furious.
He told her to stay away.
But a few weeks later, already in my second trimester, she showed up again — with a gift basket.
Inside were snacks, creams, and a jar of homemade pickled cucumbers.
I took a bite.
An hour later, I threw up.
A lot.
Fever. Dizziness. Dehydration.
Evan rushed me to the hospital.
They said it was food poisoning.
I stayed overnight on an IV and under observation.
Thank God, the baby was fine.
But the doctor took Evan aside and asked if someone might be deliberately putting me in danger.
That’s when it all became real.
Not just passive aggression.
Not just intrusive advice.
Sabotage.
Deliberate sabotage.
Evan spoke to her again, but this time with a fury I had never seen in him before.
She cried, called me manipulative, accused me of ‘turning her son against her.’
And then, in a moment of twisted sincerity, she said:
‘I just don’t think she’s fit to be a mother.’
Something inside me broke.
Not because I believed her.
But because I realised how dangerous people are who mask control as ‘care.’
We stopped communicating.
Evan blocked her number.
I changed the locks when she came uninvited.
I devoted the rest of my pregnancy to restoring my inner peace.
I meditated.
I painted the nursery yellow.
I joined an online support group for women with toxic relatives.
I was struck by how common my story was.
Women whose mothers-in-law commented on their weight, undermined their parenting, ‘accidentally’ gave them alcohol, or told them horror stories about childbirth.
It wasn’t just me.
But I made a promise to myself:
My child would be born in safety.
Without drama.
Without manipulation disguised as maternal love.
And he was born.
On a quiet October Tuesday morning, I gave birth to a healthy boy named Luca.
He had his father’s curls and my mother’s eyes.
We didn’t tell Lorraine right away.
We waited a week.
Then Evan sent her a photo and a short but clear message:
‘He’s safe. We’re doing well. We’ll be in touch when we’re ready.’
That was six months ago.
We’ve only seen her once since then.
She cried again. She apologised.
We told her she could rebuild our trust — slowly, on our terms.
Under supervision.
No food.
No gifts.
No alone time.
It may seem harsh.
But motherhood has taught me something I wish I had known earlier:
Boundaries are not cruel.
They are necessary.
Especially when you are protecting someone who cannot yet protect themselves.
Any woman who is devalued, controlled or made to doubt herself during pregnancy — trust your instincts.
You are not paranoid.
You are a protector.
It’s not the same thing.
My mother-in-law once tried to terminate my pregnancy.
But in the end, she made me stronger.
Sharper.
More confident in the kind of mother I want to be.
And I will raise Luke so that he knows:
True love does not manipulate.
A real family does not cause pain.
And when someone shows you who they really are, believe them.
