I invited my mom to stay with us for a month after the baby was born, but she decided to move in for a year—and brought dad along.
For the past three nights, sleep has eluded me. Guilt eats away at me like a ravenous beast, leaving me in a constant state of restlessness. I feel as though I’m standing on the edge of a vast chasm, torn between a sense of obligation and my own anxieties. This inner conflict stems from the fact that I’m eight months pregnant, and my life is about to change in ways I can’t even fathom. After getting married, I moved to my husband’s home in another city, leaving my childhood village far behind. My parents remained there, and our visits became infrequent—sometimes they came to us, other times we visited them, but these encounters had become so rare that I could count them on one hand.
During one of these rare visits, my mum and I were sitting in my tiny kitchen over a cup of tea. She was reminiscing about how tough things were for her when I was born. She recounted the loneliness of caring for a newborn and how exhausting it was, until her mum, my gran, saved her from breaking point. Her words struck a chord with me—I imagined myself in her shoes, feeling helpless and lost with a newborn. Almost without realizing it, I blurted out, “Mum, why don’t you come stay with us after the baby’s born? You can help me out.” Her eyes lit up as if I’d given her a new lease on life. But then she caught me off guard, saying, “Oh, your dad and I would love to stay with you for a year! We could rent out our place to help you financially.”
I froze, as if doused with cold water. Her words echoed in my mind like a warning bell. I love my dad dearly; he means the world to me. But I had only invited my mum, and not for a year—just a couple of weeks, a month at most—until I found my footing as a new mum. But a year, and with dad too? A vision flashed before my eyes: Dad stepping out onto the balcony for a smoke. When it’s just us, I turn a blind eye to the smell of tobacco that permeates everything. But with a baby? I don’t want my little one breathing that smoke, for their tiny lungs to suffer from the pungent smell. And in winter? Dad opening and closing the balcony door, letting in the cold draft. I can already see my baby coughing, catching a cold, while I panic, unsure how to protect them.
And that’s not all. Dad always seems bored when he visits—nothing to occupy him. Either he’s watching TV all day, turning up the volume on his old films, or dragging my husband out for a pint, keeping him out until late. I don’t mind him relaxing, but with a newborn, I need my husband around, not out on soirées with his father-in-law. I envisioned this year—noise, smoke, endless fussing—and felt an icy dread seize me.
I mustered the courage and told Mum directly, “Mum, I’m inviting just you, not for a year, but a month, no longer.” Her face darkened, eyes filling with hurt. She snapped, “I won’t go without your dad. It’s both of us or not at all,” and left, leaving a suffocating silence behind. Now I sit here in the dark, feeling as if my heart is being torn apart. Was I right in what I did? Was I too harsh? Maybe I should have just swallowed my fears for Mum’s happiness? But how will I cope with that year when the mere thought of it overwhelms me?
Guilt whispers that I’m being selfish, that Mum wants to help and I’m pushing her away. But my heart cries out: I can’t handle it, I need to protect my child, my home, my new life. I don’t know what to do. I lie awake at night, listening to my husband breathe softly beside me, and wonder: what if I’m wrong? What if Mum is right, and I’m denying her the chance to be there during such an important time? Or am I right, and need to set boundaries before they crumble under others’ demands? What do you think is the truth here? I’m drowning in these thoughts and need a light to find my way out of the darkness.