I blinked. Flooding? That didn’t sound right. She lived in a freshly renovated house, nothing but top-tier everything. I hadn’t heard a single complaint about it until now.
Before I could even begin to process, Joe appeared behind me. He looked guilty, eyes darting anywhere but at me. “Yeah… about that.” He rubbed the back of his neck, awkwardly shifting his weight. “Mom’s gonna stay with us for a bit. Just until the house gets fixed.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” I asked, my glare piercing.
He shrugged like it was no big deal. “It’s only for a little while, babe. You and Mom get along, right?”
Get along? If by “get along,” he meant the passive-aggressive remarks about how we’d been married for six years and still hadn’t given her any grandkids, then sure. We were best friends. But I plastered on a smile, the kind you give when you’re two seconds away from snapping. “Of course. I totally understand.”
Hours later, after I’d pretended everything was fine, I got up for some water. As I passed the kitchen, I heard them talking in hushed voices.
“You didn’t tell her the real reason, did you?” Jane’s voice was sharp, like a knife slicing through the night.
Joe sighed. “No, Mom. I didn’t.”
“Well,” Jane huffed, “I’m here to keep an eye on things. Married this long with no children… someone’s got to figure out what’s going on. Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.”
My stomach twisted. This wasn’t about pipes. She was here to snoop. To pressure me about kids. To “handle” me. I stood frozen in the hallway, blood boiling. What the hell had I just walked into?
The next morning, I woke up with a plan. If Jane wanted to play her little game, I’d play mine. But I wasn’t going to get into a battle of wits with her. No, I was going to kill her with kindness. By 8 a.m., I had already started phase one of my “operation.”
I cleared out our entire master bedroom. Every piece of clothing, every picture frame, every trace of Joe and me was stuffed into the tiny guest room. I even found Jane’s favorite floral bedspread from the back of the linen closet and spread it over the bed like I was preparing a five-star hotel suite.
When I was done, I stood in the doorway, surveying my work. The bedspread was pristine, her cat pictures were lined up on the dresser, and to top it off, I made a “Welcome to Your New Home” basket. Bath bombs, lavender-scented candles, fancy chocolates.
By the time Joe got home from work, I was already sitting in the cramped guest room, arranging our clothes into whatever space I could find. He walked in, his forehead creased with confusion. “Why are you in here?” He peeked around the corner. “Where’s our stuff?”
“Oh, I moved everything,” I said, turning to him with the sweetest smile I could muster. “Your mom deserves the master bedroom, don’t you think? It’s only fair. She needs the space more than we do.”
His eyes widened in disbelief. “You… gave her our bedroom?”
“Of course,” I said with a grin. “She’s family, after all. We’ll be just fine in here.”
Joe stood there, mouth half open, processing what I’d done. But what could he say? Jane was his mother, and I wasn’t technically doing anything wrong. He sighed and walked out of the room without another word.
For the next few days, I made sure Jane was living like royalty. Fresh towels every morning, little snacks placed on the nightstand, and those lavender candles I knew she loved.
She wandered around the house like she owned the place, smiling at me like she’d won. But while Jane was lounging in luxury, Joe was starting to crack. Sharing the guest room was driving him nuts. Not just the lack of space, but his mom’s new obsession with prepping him for fatherhood.
Every morning, without fail, she’d hand him a schedule of vitamins.
“You need to take these, Joe,” she’d say, thrusting a multivitamin at him. “It’s important to get your body ready if you want healthy kids.”
Joe would roll his eyes but take the pills just to keep her quiet.
It didn’t stop there. “Should you really be watching TV at night?” she’d ask over dinner. “That’s not very baby-friendly. You should be reading parenting books. Or exercising. And no more video games! You need to mature, Joe. Fatherhood is serious.”
By day four, I found Joe sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at a stack of parenting books his mom had ordered online.
“I think I’m losing it,” he muttered, holding up a book titled “What To Expect When You’re Expecting.” “She expects me to read this.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Well, Joe,” I said, suppressing a laugh, “you did say we’d be just fine, didn’t you?”
It was relentless. Jane had taken things up a notch. One evening, she handed Joe a neatly typed list of “fertility-boosting” foods. Kale, quinoa, grilled salmon—no more burgers, no more pizza. She smiled sweetly as if she was doing him the world’s greatest favor.
“Your future kids will thank you,” she chirped.
Joe stared at the list like it was a death sentence. “Wait, no pizza? Ever?”
“That’s right, dear,” she said, patting his shoulder. “I’ve planned all your meals for the week. You’ll feel so much better once you start eating clean.”
That night at dinner, we sat around the table eating dry salmon and tasteless kale. Jane watched Joe like a hawk, her eyes flicking from his plate to his face. He shifted uncomfortably, picking at his food.
“Joe,” she started, “did you take your vitamins this morning?”
He sighed, stabbing a fork into the kale. “Yeah, Mom. I took them.”
“And what about the gym? Did you make time for that? You know, you’ve put on a little weight. It’s important to be in shape if you want to be a good father.”
I couldn’t help it. I kicked him under the table to stop myself from bursting out laughing. He shot me a look, his expression torn between frustration and desperation. After days of this, it was finally getting to him.
Later that night, once Jane had gone to bed, Joe turned to me, rubbing his temples. His voice was low, almost pleading. “I can’t do this anymore, Tiana. The guest room, the vitamins, the baby talk… I’m going insane.”
I bit my lip, trying to suppress a smile. “You have to admit,” I said, failing to keep the amusement out of my voice, “it’s kind of funny.”
His eyes narrowed. “It’s not funny.”
I let out a small laugh. “Okay, okay, it’s a little funny.”
Joe groaned and collapsed onto the bed. “I booked her a room at the hotel down the street. I can’t take another day of this.”
The next morning, he broke the news at breakfast.
“Mom, I’ve booked you a nice hotel nearby until the repairs at your house are done. You’ll be much more comfortable there.”
She blinked, clearly surprised. “But I’m perfectly fine here! And besides, isn’t it time you two got serious about giving me grandkids?”
Joe’s jaw clenched. “Mom, we’ll decide that when we’re ready. For now, the hotel is best for everyone.”
For a moment, Jane just stared at him. Then, realizing she had no leg to stand on, she reluctantly nodded. “Well… if you insist.”
By the end of the day, she was gone. The house was ours again.
As the door clicked shut behind her, Joe collapsed onto the couch with a dramatic sigh of relief. “Finally.”
I grinned, sinking down beside him. “So… kale for dinner?”
He groaned. “Never again.”
My Husband Called Me Lazy for Wanting to Quit My Job While 7 Months Pregnant – So I Taught Him a Lesson He’ll Never Forget
I thought my first pregnancy would be smooth mainly due to the support I expected from my husband. But when I needed his understanding about the struggles of being pregnant, he mansplained it to me, forcing me to teach him a valuable lesson!
I’m 30, seven months pregnant with my first child, and exhausted. Not just “I didn’t sleep well” tired. I mean can-barely-walk, lower-back-throbbing, sciatica-shooting-down-my-leg kind of exhausted. But my suffering meant nothing to my clueless husband.
A happy man | Source: Midjourney
You see, I was so tired. The kind where my body feels like a clunky shopping cart with one bad wheel, and the baby inside me has apparently mistaken my bladder for a kickboxing bag! Doug, my husband of four years, is 33. Works in tech. I work in HR.
We both pull long hours and up until this pregnancy, I thought we had a solid partnership. We’d always split chores, tag-team dinners, and supported each other’s goals.
But pregnancy changes things—physically, mentally, and emotionally. And for some reason, it also changed Doug.
A drained pregnant woman | Source: Midjourney
Lately, every little thing I do feels like dragging a ten-pound weight behind me. I’m swelling and cramping to the point that my OB told me I should consider either working from home full-time or starting maternity leave early.
I took a few days to think about it, then decided to talk to my husband.
So one evening, during dinner—meatballs, roasted potatoes, and spaghetti I cooked—I told him we needed to talk.
A dinner plate | Source: Midjourney
“Babe,” I started, trying to keep my voice calm, “I’ve been thinking about maybe leaving work early to rest. Temporarily. My body’s just not handling this well, and the doctor—”
He didn’t even let me finish.
He scoffed, like, actually made a sound! Then he smirked and said, “You’re being dramatic. My mom worked until the day she gave birth to me.”
I blinked.
A surprised pregnant woman | Source: Midjourney
He went on, “You’re just being lazy. Admit it, you don’t want to work anymore. This isn’t the 1800s. Women juggle jobs and pregnancies all the time. You’re using it as an excuse!”
Then the kicker: “Don’t expect me to pick up the slack financially just because you feel tired!”
I sat there in silence, my fork halfway to my mouth, spaghetti cooling on the utensil and the plate!
I wanted to scream! I wanted to argue my case, but instead, I forced a smile and said, “You’re right. I’ll push through.”
And just like that, a plan was born!
A pregnant woman mid-eating | Source: Midjourney
I was going to show this man exactly what “lazy” looks like, and what real work actually feels like!
I didn’t quit my job.
Nope!
Instead, I went to work every day for the next week while also waking up early to do everything around the house.
The next morning, I got up at 6 a.m. while he was still snoring. Cleaned the kitchen, prepped his lunch, scrubbed the bathroom floor on hands and knees (hello Braxton Hicks), and left for work like nothing had changed.
For the next six days, I became Superwoman!
A pregnant woman cleaning | Source: Midjourney
I’d wake up early and do every chore in the house—laundry, floors, dishes, garbage, organizing the pantry, dusting fan blades, and even alphabetizing our spice rack.
I went all out! I hand-washed his sweaty gym clothes and hung them in color order. I made fresh dinners nightly: grilled chicken piccata, lemon-garlic pasta, and even a homemade lasagna that nearly made me pass out from standing so long!
An enticing dinner plate | Source: Midjourney
Doug noticed, of course.
“Wow, you’ve got energy lately,” he said one night, chewing happily. “Told you it was all in your head!”
I smiled sweetly. “Just trying to be the strong woman you believe I am.”
He nodded proudly. “That’s the spirit!”
I almost choked on my salad.
But I wasn’t just exhausting myself for petty satisfaction. I was planning something bigger, something unforgettable.
I did something else my husband didn’t know about. I booked him a well-deserved “surprise!”
A pregnant woman thinking of a plan | Source: Midjourney
See, my OB had referred me to a doula and postpartum coach named Shannon. She’s this no-nonsense powerhouse of a woman who also runs intensive parenting workshops for soon-to-be dads. I asked if she’d be willing to help me out with a little… lesson.
Shannon grinned and said, “I live for this.”
Then I texted my college friend Maddie, whose twin boys were now three months old and in peak screech mode.
“I need a favor,” I told her. “One day. Total chaos. You in?”
My notoriously mischievous friend laughed. “Girl, I’ve been waiting for this moment!”
A woman laughing while sitting her twins | Source: Midjourney
I coordinated everything for the upcoming Friday. I figured at that point, my husband wouldn’t suspect anything as he’d relaxed into the idea that I would do everything around the house and still work.
That day, I told him I had a prenatal appointment and needed him to stay and work from home because “the water company and pest control are coming.” Of course, this wasn’t true.
I threw in, “They gave us a window between 9 a.m. and 3 p.m., so please don’t schedule calls.”
He rolled his eyes but said okay. “Guess I’ll babysit the dishwasher.”
He had no idea what was coming!
An unimpressed man | Source: Midjourney
Friday morning, I kissed him goodbye, handed him a carefully typed “to-do list” on floral stationery—”Be nice to the workers!”—and left the house.
At 9:15 a.m., Shannon rang the doorbell. Doug later confessed that he answered the door in pajama pants, holding coffee, thinking she was with the water company.
“Hi!” she said cheerily. “I’m here for your fatherhood simulation day!”
Doug blinked. “Wait, for what?”
Then, 75 minutes later, Maddie arrived, juggling diaper bags, bottles, and two babies already crying like fire alarms.
At this point, Doug texted me in a panic!
A panicked man texting | Source: Midjourney
Doug: “WHAT IS HAPPENING? There’s a woman here talking about diapers and sleep regression while making me swaddle a fake baby! There are also TWO REAL babies SCREAMING in the living room?!”
Me: “They made it! It’s your real-life dad simulation day! You’ve got this, champ 💪”
No response. For seven hours.
At 6 p.m., I walked into an apocalypse!
A pregnant woman arriving home | Source: Midjourney
One baby was wailing. Doug sat on the couch with a burp cloth over his shoulder and a haunted expression on his face. Shannon sat cross-legged on the rug, sipping chamomile tea like she was meditating through the chaos.
The smell hit me first—diapers and despair.
Doug stood up like Frankenstein’s monster. He looked like he hadn’t slept for three days! “They both pooped. Twice in a matter of hours. One projectile vomited on me! I didn’t eat! They took turns screaming! I think one of them is teething!”
A shocked man talking | Source: Midjourney
I blinked. “Weird. You said women can handle pregnancy and careers. You’ve had eight hours. No pregnancy. Plus help.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then just slumped back down on the couch like someone had unplugged him. He didn’t say anything but stared at a wall hauntingly.
But I wasn’t done.
Later that night, after Maddie left (with a mischievous wink and a “Call me if you need round two”), I handed Doug a wrapped box. Inside was a small scrapbook I’d titled “Things You Didn’t See.”
A wrapped box | Source: Midjourney
He looked confused but opened it slowly.
Inside were screenshots of texts I’d sent his mom over the last few months, asking for her advice, trying to keep her in the loop. There were photos of my swollen feet next to a vacuum cleaner, receipts from grocery runs, and notes I’d left for him wishing him luck on big meetings, little things he never noticed.
At the end was a sticky note:
“You think I’m lazy? You think I’m weak? I hope today showed you just how wrong you are.”
He stared at it for a long time.
An emotional man staring at a scrapbook | Source: Midjourney
Then he looked up at me, eyes red.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t get it. Not until today,” he said, apologizing profusely.
And for the first time in weeks, I felt like he really saw me.
I nodded. “That’s all I needed to hear.”
But this chapter wasn’t done yet.
Here’s where things get really wild!
A happy pregnant woman smiling | Source: Midjourney
The next morning, he woke up early and made me pancakes. Real ones, fluffy, golden, with strawberries and whipped cream! Then he made a call I didn’t expect.
He called his mom.
“Hey,” he said. “I just wanted to say sorry. I used the story that you worked until the day I was born against Cindy, but… I shouldn’t have done that. I guess I used it as the standard for everyone, forgetting we are different.”
A man on a call | Source: Midjourney
“I can’t imagine what you went through working full-time while carrying me to term. I’ve seen what Cindy’s suffered through, so I am sorry you had to go through that, Mom.”
His mom paused, then said something I didn’t expect (he’d put her on loudspeaker for me to hear his apology and her response).
“Oh honey, that’s not true! I stopped working four months in! Your dad and I decided that I needed to rest. I just never told you because I didn’t want you to think I was less strong for thinking I’d stayed at home.”
A happy woman on a call | Source: Midjourney
Doug blinked.
“Wait, WHAT?”
I took a long sip of my tea and smiled. “Looks like you believed the wrong version of strength.”
He’s been different since then. More attentive. More understanding. He never uses the word “lazy” anymore!
And last night, as I waddled to bed, he kissed my forehead and whispered, “Thank you for not giving up on me.”
I didn’t say anything.
But I smiled.
Because sometimes, the best way to teach someone what strength looks like… is to let them live in your shoes—poop, puke, and all!
A happy pregnant woman | Source: Midjourney
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