Three months after having my fourth kid, I was running on empty and grabbing whatever bits I could between nursings…
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.
“Figured these were scraps,” she’d say with a lift of her shoulders. “They’re fresh if I fixed ’em an hour back,” I’d bite back, teeth grinding so hard I swore they’d chip. “Well, mark ’em clearer.” She’d brush it off with a chuckle, like her paws in my stuff was on me.
The real kick? She never grabbed the baby or spelled me for a quick wash or breath. She’d breeze in, hit my shelves, and bolt with my share before I could beg a hand.
I cracked and told Stellan. “Your mom’s gotta quit swiping my eats. I’m scraping by as is.”
He glanced up from his screen, half tuned out.
“I’ll chat her up.”
“You catch me? I’m skipping meals ’cause your mom…”
“I said I’ll handle it, Thalassa. Ease up.”
But zilch shifted.
If anything, Ophelia got gutsier. So I faced her next drop-in square. “Ophelia, knock off grabbing my food.
If I share, cool. But no more helping yourself.”
She clutched her chest like I’d swung. “Oh, sorry.
Didn’t know it bugged you that deep.”
For a week, she ghosted. I almost bought she’d clocked it. Maybe we’d slide past and I’d snag a quiet plate.
Big fool call. Then the pizza mess blew up. I’d burned the afternoon rolling four from-scratch pies.
One for the two big kids, one each for me and Stellan, and one for Ophelia. She’d pinged she was heading over. The little one got her jabs that day and wailed nonstop when I tried settling her.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
