From the moment I found out I was pregnant, I felt like the happiest person in the world. Bill and I had dreamed of this for so long, imagining the day we’d finally hold our baby.

But I wasn’t the only one waiting for this child.

Bill’s mother, Jessica, had been waiting too—just not in the way a grandmother should.

She had never liked me, never even pretended to. From the beginning, she made it clear I wasn’t good enough for her son.

“Bill deserves someone better,” she’d say, shaking her head whenever I was around.

And the moment she found out I was pregnant, everything changed. But not in the way I had hoped.

It was as if the baby belonged to her, not me.

She invited herself to every doctor’s appointment. She dictated how I should eat, how I should sleep, how I should breathe.

“You need me to come with you to the doctor,” she’d insist, already grabbing her coat. “I know what’s best.”

When we started preparing for the baby, she took over completely.

The nursery? She picked the furniture.
The baby gear? She dismissed my choices.
And when we hadn’t even found out the gender, she declared, “The nursery should be blue. You’ll have a boy.”

The pregnancy itself was miserable. I had constant nausea, barely able to eat. But Jessica didn’t care.

She came over daily, filling the house with the smell of greasy food, smiling as Bill enjoyed her cooking.See more wach below!!!!!!!!!!!!!