At thirty-six weeks pregnant, every movement felt like a negotiation with gravity. My back ached constantly, my feet were swollen beyond recognition, and my baby seemed to believe my ribs were a set of drums meant to be kicked at all hours of the day and night.

Even breathing deeply sometimes felt like work. Yet there I was, on my hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor with a stiff brush, the sharp smell of bleach stinging my nose and making my stomach churn.

I paused for a moment, one hand instinctively cradling my belly as the baby shifted inside me. A dull pain spread across my lower back, and I inhaled slowly, trying to steady myself.

“Don’t stop just because you’re uncomfortable,” my mother-in-law’s voice snapped from behind me. “Pregnancy isn’t an illness. Women in my day worked until the very moment they gave birth.”

Her name was Margaret, and she had moved into our home three weeks earlier under the guise of “helping prepare for the baby.” What she really brought with her was a suitcase full of criticism, control, and an unshakable belief that no woman would ever be good enough for her son.

I bit my tongue, the familiar taste of frustration settling in my mouth. Arguing only made things worse. I had learned that quickly.

“You young women are so spoiled,” she continued, arms crossed as she inspected the floor like a drill sergeant searching for dust. “Always tired, always sitting. If you keep lying around all day, you’ll never lose the baby weight. Laziness starts before the child even arrives.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t lazy, that I worked full-time until my doctor ordered reduced hours, that I still cooked, cleaned, and did laundry while carrying a human being inside my body. I wanted to tell her that the pain in my hips sometimes made me cry at night when no one could see.

But I didn’t.

Because this was my house.
And somehow, it no longer felt like my home.

My husband, Daniel, was at work. He always was when these moments happened. Margaret had a way of waiting until we were alone, her words sharpened by privacy. In front of Daniel, she was sweetness and concern. Behind closed doors, she was relentless.

“You missed a spot,” she said, pointing with her foot. “Honestly, I don’t know how you expect to be a mother if you can’t even keep a floor clean.”

The baby kicked hard, as if reacting to her tone. I winced, pushing myself up slowly, my knees trembling.

“I’ll get it,” I said quietly.

Margaret huffed. “You’re too sensitive. That’s another problem. Always emotional. Hormones, I suppose. But still, excuses don’t raise good children.”

She turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with the bucket of dirty water and the heavy silence that followed her footsteps.

This hadn’t started overnight.

When I first found out I was pregnant, Margaret cried tears of joy. She hugged me tightly, told everyone how excited she was to be a grandmother, and insisted she would help with everything. Daniel had been relieved. I had been grateful. At least, at first.

But as my belly grew, so did her contempt.

She criticized what I ate, how much I slept, how I sat, how I walked. She commented on my weight gain with a frown, comparing me constantly to herself when she had been pregnant decades earlier.

“I barely gained anything,” she liked to say. “And I never complained.”

Soon, “help” turned into commands.

She rearranged my kitchen because I “organized it wrong.”
She threw out maternity clothes she didn’t like because they were “unflattering.”
She woke me early to clean, even on days when my body begged for rest.

And every time I tried to push back, she laughed.

“Don’t be dramatic,” she’d say. “You’re pregnant, not dying.”

That morning, after finishing the floor, I dragged myself to the couch, my legs shaking. I had a prenatal appointment later that day, one I had been counting on like a lifeline. My doctor was the only person who listened without judgment, who treated my pain as real instead of an inconvenience.

Margaret spotted me sitting and immediately scowled.

I had carried this baby through nausea, exhaustion, swollen ankles, and sleepless nights. I had swallowed fear every time something felt off, prayed silently every time the baby didn’t move for a while, and held myself together when anxiety threatened to consume me.