As the contraction eased, I noticed Elizabeth fidgeting with something, her eyes darting around the room.
She looked more nervous than excited now. And I knew that something was seriously off.
“Are you okay?” I asked, frowning.
She turned around, startled.
“What? Oh, yes! Just thinking about what I can do to help.
You’re doing just fine, honey.
Just keep it up.”
Before I could press further, she was out the door, muttering something about getting me some water.
Josh squeezed my hand. “Want me to talk to her?”
I shook my head.
“No, it’s fine. She’s probably just nervous.
It’s our first baby, right?”
As my labor progressed, Elizabeth’s behavior became increasingly odd.
She’d pop in, ask how I was doing, then disappear again. Each time she returned, she seemed more flustered.
During a particularly intense contraction, I gripped Josh’s hand so hard I thought I might break it. As the pain ebbed, I became aware of a strange sound.
“Josh,” I panted, “do you hear that?”
He cocked his head and listened.
“Sounds like… voices?”
I nodded, relieved I wasn’t imagining things.
“And is that music?”
Josh’s brow furrowed.
He kissed my forehead and turned around. “I’ll check it out. Be right back.”
As he left, Rosie gave me an encouraging smile.
“You’re doing great, Nancy.
Not long now.”
When Josh returned, his face was ashen as though he’d seen a ghost.
“What is it?” I asked.
He ran a hand through his hair, looking pained.
“You’re not going to believe this. My mother is throwing a party.
In our living room.”
I stared at him, certain I’d misheard.
“A what?”
“A party,” he repeated, his voice edged with frustration. “There are at least a dozen people out there.”
The pain of labor was nothing compared to the rage that coursed through me. I struggled to my feet, ignoring my midwife’s protests.
Josh supported me as we made our way to the living room.
The scene that greeted us was surreal.
People were mingling, drinks in hand, as if this were a casual Sunday barbecue.
A banner hanging on the wall read: “WELCOME BABY!”
Elizabeth stood in the center of it all, holding court with a group of women I’d never seen before.
She hadn’t even noticed our arrival.
“What the hell is going on here?” I bellowed.
The room fell silent, all eyes turning to us. Elizabeth spun around, her face paling as she saw me.
“Nancy!
Holy Christ!
What are you doing here? You’re supposed to—”
“Elizabeth, what’s going on over here?”
“Oh, I… we were just…”
“Just what?
Turning my home birth into an exhibition?”
Elizabeth had the audacity to look offended. “Now, Nancy, don’t be dramatic.
We’re just celebrating!”
“Celebrating?
I’m in labor, Elizabeth! This isn’t a social event!”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, you wouldn’t even know we were here!
I thought you’d appreciate the support.”
I felt a contraction building and gritted my teeth against the pain and anger.
“Support? This isn’t support.
This is a circus!”
Josh stepped forward, his voice low and dangerous. “Everyone needs to leave.
Now.”
As people scrambled to gather their things, Elizabeth tried one last time.
“Nancy, you’re overreacting.”
I rounded on her, my words clipped and cold. “This is my home birth. My moment.
If you can’t respect that, you can leave too.”
Without waiting for a response, I turned and waddled back to the bedroom to finish what I started, leaving Josh to deal with the aftermath.
Hours later, I held my newborn son in my arms.
Josh sat beside us, his eyes full of wonder as he stroked our baby’s cheek.
We sat in comfortable silence until a soft knock at the door broke the spell.
Elizabeth peeked in, her eyes red-rimmed. “Can I…
can I come in?”
I felt my jaw clench. “No!”
Elizabeth’s face crumpled.
“Please, Nancy.
I’m so sorry. I just want to see the baby.”
I looked at Josh, conflicted. He squeezed my hand gently, his eyes understanding but pleading.
“Fine.
Five minutes.”
Elizabeth entered slowly, as if afraid I might change my mind.
“Nancy, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.
I just got so excited and carried away.”
I didn’t respond and just stared at her stonily. Josh cleared his throat.
“Would you like to see your grandson, Mom?”
Elizabeth nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks as Josh carefully transferred our son into her arms.
After a few minutes, I spoke up. “It’s time for him to feed.”
Elizabeth nodded, reluctantly handing the baby back to me. She lingered for a moment at the door.
“Thank you for letting me see him,” she said softly before leaving.
As the door closed behind her, Josh turned to me.
“Are you okay?”
I shook my head. “No.
What she did… I can’t just forgive and forget, Josh.”
In the weeks that followed, I wrestled with how to move forward. Part of me wanted to exclude Elizabeth from our son’s first celebration as petty revenge for her home birth hijinks.
But as I watched her dote on our baby during her visits, always respectful of our space and routines, I realized there was a better way.
When it was time to organize the baby’s first party, I picked up the phone and called her.
“Elizabeth?
It’s Nancy. I was hoping you could help with the preparations for the baby’s party next weekend.”
The silence on the other end was deafening.
Finally, she spoke. “You want my help?
After what I did?”
“Yes.
Because this is what family does. We forgive, we learn, and we move forward together.”
I could hear the tears in her voice as she replied, “Oh, Nancy. Thank you.
I promise I won’t let you down.”
True to her word, Elizabeth was a model of restraint and support during the party.
She helped quietly in the background, beaming with pride as we introduced our son to our friends and family.
As the last guest left, she approached me, her eyes glistening. “Thank you for letting me be part of this, Nancy.
I see now that this is how you celebrate. With love and respect.”
I smiled, feeling the barriers between us crumble.
“That’s exactly right, Elizabeth.
Welcome to the family!”
My husband Simon and I have a five-year-old daughter named Hope, and I’m six months pregnant with a boy. Our lives are busy but filled with joy. As parents, Simon and I believe in giving Hope autonomy, especially when it comes to food.
We want her to understand her body’s needs and make healthy choices.
To support this, we set up a cute little semi-functional kitchen for her.
It had a mini fridge and a sink Simon rigged up with a weak pump.
Hope kept her snacks there: everything from bananas to chocolates.
She could grab what she wanted and even “cook” little things like fruit salad or muesli. Dangerous stuff was off-limits, of course, but she loved helping us cook.
This setup meant she didn’t go nuts over candy or chips because she could have them whenever she wanted.
Hope adored it.
But not everyone was a fan of our parenting choices.
My mother-in-law, Eleanor, was staying with us for a while, and she had very different views.
She thought we were going to make Hope obese by allowing her to have snacks whenever she wanted.
“Grace, this is absurd,” Eleanor said one afternoon, watching Hope munch on a muesli bar. “She’s going to spoil her dinner.”
“Mom, it’s fine. She knows what she needs,” Simon responded gently.
On the first night Eleanor arrived, she took away the muesli bar Hope was eating because dinner was at 6 p.m., and it was around 4 p.m.
Hope’s face crumpled, and she looked at me with wide eyes.
“Grandma, please! I’m hungry now,” she pleaded.
“Give it back to her, Mom,” Simon said firmly.
Eleanor relented, but her disapproval was clear. I thought that was the end of it, but I was wrong.
Last night, our babysitter got sick, and we asked Eleanor to watch Hope from 6 p.m.
to 10 p.m.
Hope goes to bed at 7:30 p.m., so it seemed easy enough. Simon and I went out for a rare dinner date.
When we returned home around 10 p.m., the house was in chaos. Hope was awake and crying, her tiny kitchen was completely ruined.
My heart sank as I rushed to comfort her.
“Hope, sweetie, what happened?” I asked, hugging her tightly.
“Grandma threw away my kitchen,” she sobbed. “She made me eat fish, and I couldn’t.
It was so yucky.”
Simon went to talk to Eleanor while I stayed with Hope. When he came back, he looked furious.
“Mom forced Hope to eat fish, even though she gagged.
Then she threw out her food when Hope tried to make something else.
And when Hope threw up, she sent her to bed without anything,” Simon explained, his voice shaking
