Evan and I spent months creating the perfect nursery—sage-green walls, painted clouds, a crib that brought him to tears.

It was our promise of family. But while I was at a check-up, he let his mother, Lydia, move in—into the

nursery. My work was shoved aside for her queen bed. She called it “childish” and smiled when I protested.

That night, I overheard her on the phone: “I told Evan I was depressed, and he begged me to move in. His wife can’t object without looking cruel.

By the time the baby comes, I’ll be so established they’ll forget whose house it was.” My stomach dropped—she’d staged it all.

Evan didn’t believe me until Aunt Carla helped me record Lydia bragging about manipulating him and

plotting to claim more space. When he heard her own words, the mask slipped. He told her to pack.

Through tears, Evan restored the crib and rocking chair, apologizing for always putting his mother first.

I pointed to my belly. “Your family is here now.” He finally understood.

When Lydia left, peace returned. In the quiet of our nursery, Evan wrapped his arms around me,

whispering, “Our baby’s room.” This time, I knew it was true.