“You’re right.
You should name the baby.”
Her eyes lit up. “Really?
Oh, dear, I knew you’d come around!”
Jason nearly choked on his coffee.
“Wait, what?”
I smiled serenely.
“Yes, Irene can name the baby. But on one condition.”
Her suspicious expression returned.
“What condition?”
“That she move in with us permanently.”
Jason turned to me with wide eyes, clearly unsure what I was doing. I continued sweetly, “It just makes sense.
If you’re naming him and helping raise him, then you should be close by all the time.
You’ll be changing diapers, waking up for feedings, babysitting whenever we need all of it.
A baby needs consistency, after all.”
Her face shifted from excitement to horror. “Well, I—I don’t know about living with you full-time,” she stammered.
“I mean, I have my own space downstairs.”
“But it’s just an apartment,” I said kindly.
“You’d be closer to the baby here. Besides, since it’s your roof, I suppose it’s technically your home anyway.
Why not move in and make it official?”
Jason caught on and hid his grin behind his mug.
I leaned in, pretending to be sincere.
“And of course, if you’re naming him, you’ll be fully responsible for all the baby supplies.
Stroller, diapers, formula, toys, everything your grandbaby deserves the best, right?”
She blinked rapidly. “Well, that’s quite an expense—”
“Oh, but it’s an honor, isn’t it? Naming a baby means you take on responsibility.
We wouldn’t want to dishonor such a gift by doing things halfway.”
Jason nearly snorted.
Irene sat there speechless, and for the first time since I’d met her, she had nothing to say.
After a long pause, she forced a smile.
“Maybe it’s better if you two handle the naming after all. I wouldn’t want to overstep.”
I placed a hand on my belly and smiled sweetly.
“Oh, Irene, you’re not overstepping at all.
But if it’s too much pressure, we completely understand.”
From that day forward, she never mentioned “Cornelius” again. A week later, Jason came home from work laughing.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“She told my aunt that she ‘graciously decided to let us name the baby ourselves,’ like it was her idea all along.”
I rolled my eyes but smiled.
“As long as she stays out of it, she can take all the credit she wants.”
We finally decided on a name we both loved, Lucas James. Simple, warm, and meaningful to us.
When I gave birth, Irene was at the hospital, of course, pacing the hallway like a general waiting for battle news. When she heard his name, she pursed her lips, but to her credit, she didn’t say a word.
Instead, she smiled tightly and said, “Lucas.
That’s… nice.”
I knew it wasn’t the grand family name she dreamed of, but in that moment, holding my newborn son, I didn’t care.
He was ours, not hers. Things improved slowly after that.
Irene still dropped by daily, but she was more careful about overstepping.
She’d knock before coming in, ask before buying things, and even occasionally compliment my parenting. One afternoon, when Lucas was three months old, she came up with a basket of homemade soup.
“I brought this for you,” she said softly.
“You must be exhausted.”
I smiled, genuinely touched.
“Thank you, Irene.
That’s really kind.”
She hesitated, then sighed. “I suppose I got a bit carried away before. It’s just that… when you become a grandmother, you feel this strange need to hold on.
I didn’t realize I was pushing too hard.”
Her honesty surprised me.
I reached out and touched her hand.
“I get it.
You love him and us. But we need to make our own decisions too.”
She nodded slowly.
“You’re right.
He’s your son. I just want to be a good grandmother.”
And for the first time, I truly believed her.
A few months later, when we were finally able to move into our own place, Irene helped us pack.
She even joked, “Now you’ll really get to raise Lucas your way.”
On our last night in her apartment, she came upstairs with a small gift.
Inside was a silver baby bracelet with Lucas’s initials — L.J.W. — engraved on it.
“I thought maybe this could replace that silly certificate I made,” she said with a sheepish smile. I hugged her.
“Thank you.
That means a lot.”
She chuckled.
“You know, I still think Cornelius had potential.”
Jason groaned. “Mom—”
She waved a hand.
“I’m kidding!
Relax. Lucas is perfect.”
As she held her grandson one last time before we left, I realized something important — Irene wasn’t a villain.
She was just a woman who’d spent her life being in control, struggling to let go.
And while she drove me crazy at times, I knew she loved my son fiercely.
Moving into our new home felt like a fresh start.
The first night, as I tucked Lucas into his crib, I whispered, “You’ll always have people who love you, little one — but we’ll make sure your life is yours.”
Jason wrapped his arms around me and said, “You know, I still can’t believe how you handled my mom. That condition thing was genius.”
I smiled, remembering Irene’s stunned face. “Sometimes, the best way to win an argument is to let the other person think they’re getting what they want.”
He laughed.
“Remind me never to argue with you.”
“Good plan,” I said with a grin.
As we stood there, watching our baby sleep peacefully, I felt a wave of relief.
Our home was truly ours now — no conditions, no interference, just love, laughter, and the life we were building together.
Because sometimes, the sweetest victories come not from fighting back — but from knowing exactly when to smile and say, “Sure… but on one condition.”
