At 8 Months Pregnant, I Found Out My Husband Gave Our Nursery to His Mom Because She 'Felt Lonely' – Then I Overheard Her True Motives

My husband gave away our baby's nursery to his mom because she was "lonely and depressed." I was shattered. Then I passed the nursery that night and overheard what my mother-in-law had really been planning behind my back. She was more cunning than I ever realized.

For the past two months, my husband and I poured ourselves into our baby's nursery like it was a second heartbeat. I painted the walls this soft, earthy sage green. I even hand-stenciled these cute little clouds that looked like they were floating just above the crib.

My back screamed but I wanted our baby to dream under something beautiful. When we finished the crib assembly, Evan teared up.

"Our little family," he whispered.

I should've recorded that moment... for evidence.

My phone buzzed one Thursday while I was at the clinic for my routine check-up. It was a text from Evan:

"Can we talk when you get home? Mom's not doing great."

I came home to find Evan pacing our kitchen like a caged animal.

"Okay, so here's the thing," he started, not making eye contact. "Mom called Dr. Wills. She's been feeling lonely and depressed. He strongly recommended that she stay close to family for a while."

I set down my purse. "How close?"

"Well, that's what I wanted to talk about." His hands fidgeted with the keys, his phone, and even the salt shaker. "I thought maybe she could use the nursery temporarily. Just until she stabilizes."

"Come again?"

"Think about it logically," he said, gaining confidence in his stupidity. "Babies don't sleep in cribs for months anyway. We can put a bassinet in our room. Mom needs comfort, and she'd be right here if we needed help."

"You want to put your mother in OUR baby's room?"

"Temporarily! She's already... here."

I walked past him down the hall and turned the nursery door handle with shaking hands.

A queen-size bed sat where our rocking chair used to be. My MIL Lydia's floral comforter spread across it like a disease. Her jewelry box squatted on the changing table. She looked up from unpacking, her phone pressed to her ear.

"Oh, she's here! Gotta go, Susan." She hung up, beaming. "Anna! Don't you love what we've done with the space?"

"Where's the crib, Lydia?" My voice came out strangled.

"Evan moved it to the corner for now. Don't worry, sweetie. I won't be in your way."

"Oh, and by the way, those clouds are cute, but a bit childish for a guest room, don't you think?" she added. "I was telling my friend Susan we might want to consider a more mature palette."

"It's not a guest room," I said, pouring coffee. "It's temporary."

"Of course, dear." She patted my arm. "We'll see how things go."

I turned to find Evan hovering in the doorway like a guilty child.

"When did this happen?"

He cleared his throat. "This afternoon. While you were at Dr. Murphy's office."

My prenatal appointment. The one he'd missed because Lydia needed him to "check a weird noise in her car."

"You moved our baby's furniture while I was getting checked for preeclampsia. You could've used the guest room."

"Anna, please try to understand. The guest room is a bit uncomfortable for mom and she..."

"I understand perfectly." I pushed past him and Lydia's satisfied smile, and stormed into our bedroom.

He followed, shutting the door. "She's struggling. When she cried on the phone, I couldn't just..."

"I'm eight months pregnant, Evan. I can barely tie my shoes. I pee every 20 minutes. I need that room to be ready."

"We have time."

"No, Evan. You have time. I have a human being about to claw his way out of my body."

He sat heavily on our bed. "It's temporary. Just for a few months until she gets back on her feet."

I stared at this man I'd married and who had promised to put our family first.

"Fine. But I'm not pretending to be happy about it."

***

That night, at around 10 p.m., our son kicked me awake like he knew his room had been invaded. I needed a heating pad for my lower back.

As I wrestled with the linen pile, Lydia's voice drifted through the cracked nursery door: "You should have seen her face when she walked in! Like someone had died!"

I froze, the heating pad clutched to my chest.

"No, no, it was easier than I thought. I'm a good actress, you know? I told Evan that Dr. Wills said I was showing signs of depression. Poor boy practically begged me to move in! Men are so simple when you know which buttons to push. His wife has no idea about my next step."

My heart raced.

"The best part? She can't say anything without looking heartless. What kind of daughter-in-law kicks out a depressed mother-in-law? I've got months before that baby comes, and by then, I'll be so established here they'll forget whose house this was first."

I pressed my back against the hallway wall, heat flooding my face.

"Oh, trust me, Susan. I've been planning this for months. The minute she fell pregnant, I knew I had to act fast. Once grandchildren arrive, old mothers become afterthoughts. But not this mother. Never!"

I couldn't breathe properly. My vision blurred at the edges.

"The doctor thing was genius, right? I called his office and asked some hypothetical questions about seasonal depression. I took those talking points straight to Evan. Sometimes I amaze myself!"

I backed away from the door, shaken. Evan was reading on his tablet in our bedroom, looking peaceful and clueless.

"I need to tell you something," I said, sitting on the bed's edge.

He looked up, noting my expression. "What's wrong?"

"Your mother just confessed to lying about her depression. I heard her on the phone."

"That's not... she wouldn't."

"She called Dr. Wills' office to discuss about her fake depression. She planned this whole thing. She's been planning it for a long time."

"Anna, that's impossible. You must have misheard..."

"She said, and I quote, 'I've got months before that baby comes, and by then I'll be so established they'll forget whose house this was first.'"

Evan set down his tablet. "Mom gets dramatic when she talks to her friend. They gossip. She probably just..."

"She conned you, Evan. She made up a medical emergency to steal our baby's room."

"Honey, look, even if she exaggerated, she's still struggling. We can't just throw her out. She's my mother."

I stared at him. "Your pregnant wife tells you she's been manipulated, and your response is to defend the manipulator."

"That's not what I'm doing."

"Then what are you doing?"

He didn't answer.

***

The next morning, I called my mom's sister, Aunt Carla. She's got the vibe of a retired sheriff and the voice of a choir director. She showed up like she'd been waiting for this moment her whole life.

"We need proof," she said, pulling out a sleek baby monitor with audio recording. "She wants to play games? Let's press record."

We set it up on the bookshelf in the nursery before Lydia returned from her latte break in the garden.

"This feels sneaky," I told her.

"Honey," she said, adjusting the angle, "sometimes the truth needs a little help getting heard."

That evening, I watched the monitor feed from our bedroom while Evan worked late. Lydia settled onto the bed with her phone, looking comfortable as a cat in the sunshine.

"The nursery plan is working perfectly," she said, examining her nails. "Evan feels so guilty about my 'depression' that he's bending over backward. I've got him convinced that helping me is good practice for being a father."

My jaw clenched.

"You should see Anna trying to be supportive. It's killing her, but she can't complain without looking selfish. I'm going to redecorate this room piece by piece, starting with those ridiculous clouds."

"Tomorrow I'm suggesting we convert the basement into a real nursery," Lydia continued. "For 'safety reasons.' Babies need climate control, and this room has the best heating system in the house."

That did it. I downloaded the video and sent it to Aunt Carla.

"We're going to therapy," I told Evan the next morning over breakfast.

"What?"

"Couples therapy. Today. I already made an appointment."

"Anna, I think you're overreacting..."

"Your other option is explaining to my father why his pregnant daughter is staying at his house."

Evan knew my dad. He knew that conversation would not go well for him.

***

The therapist, Dr. Patterson, had kind eyes and a no-nonsense approach. She listened to both our stories without interruption.

"Evan," she said finally, "you've described feeling responsible for your mother's emotional wellbeing. When did that start?"

"I don't know. Always? If she's upset, I'll fix it."

"And what about Anna's emotional wellbeing?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it.

"Who taught you that your mother's needs come before your wife's?"

"Nobody taught me that. I just... she raised me alone. I owe her."

"You owe her respect and love," Dr. Patterson said gently. "Not your marriage."

We drove home in silence.

"I need you to ask your mother to move to the guest room," I said as we pulled into our driveway.

"Anna..."

"Tonight, Evan. Or I'm going to my dad's."

He found Lydia in the kitchen, preparing what looked like a feast.

"Mom, we need to talk."

She looked up, instantly alert to trouble. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"I think it's time you moved to the guest room. Anna needs to prepare the nursery."

Lydia's face went through several expressions.

"But darling, I'm finally feeling stable here. Moving me now could trigger a relapse. Dr. Wills was very clear about the importance of consistent environment."

I pulled out my phone and opened the video file from last night.

"Dr. Wills never said any such thing," I said, hitting play.

Lydia's voice filled the kitchen: "I told Evan that Dr. Wills said I was showing signs of depression. Poor boy practically begged me to move in!"

The color drained from her face.

Evan went very still. "Is that you, Mom?"

"That's... that's taken out of context. I was just..."

Her voice from the recording continued to fill the room: "The doctor thing was genius, right? I called Dr. Wills' office and asked some hypothetical questions about seasonal depression."

Lydia lunged for my phone, but Evan caught her wrist.

"Stop," he said. "Just stop."

She stared at him, realizing her performance was over.

"How long have you been recording me?" she hissed at me.

"Long enough! Long enough to know you think I have juvenile taste and you're planning to take over our basement too."

Evan looked like someone had hit him with a brick.

"Pack your things," he told his mother. "You can stay in the guest room... for now."

"Evan, please, I can explain..."

"No more explanation and lies, Mom. You've got two days to pack all your stuff and leave."

Lydia tried every trick in her arsenal from tears, accusations, and claims that I'd "poisoned" her son against her. She even tried chest pains at one point, which earned her a very uncomfortable ride to the emergency room where tests showed absolutely nothing wrong.

Evan spent the next two days moving all the furniture back. He worked methodically, like a man trying to rebuild something he'd broken.

"I'm sorry," he said, reassembling the crib. "I'm so damn sorry."

"Why did you believe her so easily?" I asked, folding the tiny clothes.

"Because saying no to her has never been an option. Even as a kid, keeping her happy was my job."

"What about keeping me happy?"

"I thought I was. I thought taking care of her was like taking care of our family."

"Your family is right here," I said, pointing to my belly. "This is your family now."

He stopped working and looked at me. "I know that now."

Lydia left the following morning with minimal drama, mostly because my father showed up to "help with the transition." Dad didn't say much, but his presence spoke volumes.

"We'll revisit visiting arrangements after the baby's born," Evan told her at the door. "When you're ready to respect our boundaries."

"You'll regret this," she said, but her heart wasn't in it anymore.

After she left, I stood in the nursery doorway, taking in the restored space. The crib was back in its proper place. The rocking chair returned to its spot by the window. The clouds on the walls were still waiting for our son to dream beneath them.

Evan came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my swollen belly.

"Our baby's room," he said softly.

"Our baby's room," I agreed.

Some lessons come at the worst possible times. But I learned something valuable in those horrible weeks. Marriage isn't about avoiding conflict. It's about choosing the right battles and fighting them together.

If this story moved you, here's another one about the moment that froze a woman in her mother-in-law's bathroom: While her husband is away, Angela faces uneasy days with a grieving MIL... until one bizarre house rule reveals a truth she can't ignore.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided "as is," and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.