So, I asked Mum to stay with us for a month after the baby’s born, and she decided she’d move in for a year—and bring Dad along.
Three nights now, I haven’t slept a wink. My conscience is chewing me up like a starving beast, not giving me a moment’s peace. Feels like I’m teetering on the edge, torn between duty and my own fears. I’m eight months pregnant, and my life’s about to flip upside down. After the wedding, I moved to my husband’s place in Manchester, leaving my hometown, a little village near Oxford, more than a hundred miles behind. My parents stayed put, and we barely see each other—just the odd visit here and there, hardly enough to count on one hand.
The other week, Mum was over, and we were sat in my tiny kitchen, sipping tea. She started reminiscing about how rough it was when I was born—how she was alone with a newborn, exhausted to tears, and only my gran saved her from drowning in it. Her words hit me right in the gut. I pictured myself in her shoes—helpless, clueless, with a screaming baby. Then, before I could stop myself, I blurted out, *”Mum, why don’t you come stay with us after the birth? Just for a bit, to help me out.”* Her face lit up like I’d handed her a second chance at life. But then—*wham*—she drops this: *”Oh, Dad and I would *love* to stay a whole year! We’ll even rent out our place to help you with the bills.”*
I froze. Like someone had chucked a bucket of ice water over me. Her words echoed in my head like a fire alarm. I *love* Dad, I do—he’s my whole world. But I only asked for *her*. Not for a *year*—just a couple of weeks, *maybe* a month, till I find my feet. And now? A year. With *Dad*. Suddenly, all I could see was him stepping out onto the balcony for a smoke. Normally, I let it slide when it’s just us, but with a *baby*? I don’t want my kid inhaling that rubbish. And in winter? He’ll be swinging the door open and shut, letting in freezing gusts. I could already picture my poor little one coughing, me panicking, not knowing how to shield them.
And that’s not even the worst of it. Dad gets bored stiff visiting us—either blasting old films on the telly all day or dragging my husband down the pub till who-knows-when. I don’t mind him unwinding, but with a newborn, I’ll *need* my husband around—not off on lads’ nights with his father-in-law. Just imagining it—the noise, the smoke, the chaos—made my chest tighten.
So I finally got the nerve to tell Mum straight: *”I only meant you. And just for a month, max.”* Her face went dark, eyes full of hurt. *”I’m not coming without Dad,”* she snapped. *”It’s both of us or nothing.”* Then she left, and the silence afterward? Crushing. Now I’m lying here, staring into the dark, feeling like my heart’s being ripped in two. Did I do the right thing? Was I too harsh? Should I just swallow my concerns to make her happy? But how do I survive a *year* of that when even the *thought* has me suffocating?
My conscience whispers I’m selfish—she just wants to help, and I’m pushing her away. But my heart? It’s screaming that I *won’t* cope. I need to protect my baby, my home, this new life. I don’t know what to do. I lie awake listening to my husband breathe beside me, wondering—*what if I’m wrong?* What if Mum’s right, and I’m robbing her of this moment? Or am *I* right? Should I hold my ground before their wants bulldoze right over me? Honestly, where’s the line? I’m drowning in this, and I need someone to throw me a rope.