Pregnancy should have been a blissful time, filled with the joy of preparing for the arrival of our little one. Instead, it turned into a relentless ordeal thanks to my mother-in-law, who managed to escalate her eccentricity to dizzying heights. From the moment I saw those two pink lines on the pregnancy test, I naively hoped that maybe, just maybe, this would be the turning point that would soften her rough edges. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Her obsession with the pregnancy manifested in peculiar ways. She unilaterally decided to paint the nursery blue, convinced that I was carrying a boy, without so much as a courtesy call to ask my opinion. But that was only the beginning. She took to rubbing strange oils on my expanding belly, muttering about their magical properties that would ensure a male child. To top it all off, she would light incense sticks and chant in the living room, proclaiming them as rituals to guarantee a son. “A real woman gives her husband a SON. Only a son!” she declared emphatically, as if it were an undeniable law of nature.
Through it all, I tried to maintain my cool, focusing instead on the health and well-being of my baby. I bit my tongue through her unsolicited advice and incessant meddling, determined to keep stress at bay. But with each passing day, her antics grew more outrageous, testing the limits of my patience.
