Three months after having my fourth kid, I was running on empty and grabbing whatever bits I could between nursings. Sleep felt like a dream I couldn’t chase, and a warm bite to eat? That was straight-up wishful thinking by then.
But here’s what twisted the knife: My mother-in-law hitting my kitchen like it was her free grab-all-you-want spot. It kicked off easy. A couple weeks after I got the baby home, I hauled myself up at first light for a quick brew.
Just enough for two mugs to drag me through the morning mess. I was up top feeding when the front door clicked open. No ring.
No “Hey, it’s me.” Just my MIL, Ophelia, walking in like the place was hers. By the time I hit downstairs, the pot sat dry. Ophelia rummaged the fridge, snagging a tub of scraps I’d stashed for my midday bite.
“Oh, hit the spot,” she sang, washing her cup and hooking the tub under her arm. “Just swung by to peek on you before my shift, but looks like you’re holding steady.”
I froze there, wiped out past talking, eyes on the bare pot and my vanishing meal. “That was my brew, Ophelia.
And those scraps…”
“Aw, hon, you can whip up fresh.” She tapped my arm and sailed by to the door. “THANKS FOR THE BITE!”
And out she went. I chalked it up to a slip.
Folks goof sometimes, yeah? But it rolled on. I’d fix myself a sandwich and tuck it away while swapping a diaper or rocking the baby down.
Trouble was, Ophelia lived a hop away, so she could drop in anytime. And she did. Half hour later, I’d return to her chowing my stuff.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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