When my mother-in-law begged for access to our baby monitor so she could feel closer to her grandchild, I reluctantly agreed. At first, her sweet messages seemed harmless—until her comments became personal. That’s when I realized she hadn’t just been watching the baby… she’d been watching me.
I was barely a week out from giving birth when my phone buzzed, flashing my mother-in-law’s name.
You know that raw, fragile stage after childbirth when every step feels like you’ve run a marathon? That’s where I was—stiff, sore, and just trying to survive each hour—when her voice came through, dripping with emotion.
“My heart is breaking that I can’t be there,” she said, her voice cracking. “It’s just so hard being so far away.”
I sighed quietly. My husband and I live on the East Coast. His mother, Marlene, is all the way in California. And to be honest? That distance is a blessing.
Marlene is… intense. She thrives on involvement, drama, and opinions nobody asked for. I’ve learned to limit contact to holiday visits and the occasional polite call. Any closer, and I’m fairly sure our marriage wouldn’t survive.
“I just want to feel close to that precious little girl,” Marlene continued, her tone softening into something almost pleading. “Please, could you give me access to the baby monitor? I can’t visit as often as I’d like, but if I could watch her grow despite the distance, it would mean the world to me.”
And just like that, I regretted ever telling her that we used a monitor with a streaming app.
I didn’t want to sound paranoid, but giving her live access into my baby’s nursery? At any time of day or night? That felt like leaving the front door open for someone to wander in whenever they pleased.
My husband, Julian, caught my expression and reached over to squeeze my hand. His gentle smile was the kind that usually disarmed me.
“It’ll make her feel connected,” he whispered. “She just wants to see the baby. That’s all.”
I wasn’t convinced, but I gave in. Maybe, I told myself, this would actually be sweet—a digital grandma getting her fix of baby giggles and sleepy yawns.
At first, it was fine. Lovely, even. She would text me little messages like, “She’s an angel when she sleeps 😍,” or “That stretch she did with her arms? My heart melted.”
Those comments actually made me smile. It felt almost like having company during those long, lonely nights. Someone else was awake with me, witnessing the same little miracles.
But then… it shifted.
Marlene wasn’t just watching the baby—she was watching me.
One night, I shuffled into the nursery for what felt like the hundredth feeding since midnight. I was in my rocking chair, half-asleep, breastfeeding, swaying gently in that exhausted trance all new mothers know.
The next morning, my phone pinged.
“Looks like you were up late!” she wrote.
I froze. That wasn’t a comment about the baby—it was about me. And it wasn’t the warm kind of “I hope you’re doing okay” concern. It was… observation.
I started to pay closer attention after that.
A few days later, while changing my daughter Ava’s diaper, I sang a lullaby my own mom used to sing to me. It was soft and mournful—a private little connection between me and my child.
Minutes later, my phone buzzed.
“Interesting choice of song. You always go for the sad ones, don’t you?”
The words made my skin prickle. Still, I tried to tell myself it wasn’t necessarily crossing a line. After all, she had access—we had given it to her.
But then came the moment that erased any doubt.
I had just put Ava down when my sister, Hannah, came into the nursery, phone in hand, looking pale and urgent.
“You’re not going to believe this,” she blurted.
“What?” I asked, startled.
“This is way too messed up to waste time knocking. Have you seen what Marlene just posted?”
She held up her phone.
It was a screenshot from the baby monitor. I was in the same milk-stained robe I was wearing right then, breastfeeding Ava.
The caption made my blood run cold:
“Should I tell my DIL to invest in a nicer robe if she wants to keep my son interested? This one’s seen enough milk to last a lifetime 😳😅.”
My stomach lurched. But it didn’t stop there.
I opened Facebook on my own phone and felt my chest tighten. She’d been posting for weeks.
One picture showed Ava crying, captioned: “Some moms just don’t get how to soothe. 🙄”
Another had me yawning mid-rock, looking completely drained: “When you think a $400 swing will save your sleep but you still look like this 😬 #newmomlife.”
There was even one of me reading beside the crib, captioned: “Doesn’t look like bonding to me.”
This wasn’t love or longing—this was humiliation, broadcast for anyone to see.
That night, I sat Julian down and showed him everything. I had Marlene’s posts ready on my phone, expecting outrage.
He glanced at them and shrugged. “She’s just being observant. It’s not that deep.”
I stared at him. “Not that deep? She posted a photo of me breastfeeding and made a comment about keeping you attracted.”
“She’s probably just joking,” he said. “We didn’t grow up with the same boundaries you did.”
Right. Apparently, in his family, my postpartum body and parenting were fair game for public commentary.
I stopped arguing. He clearly wasn’t going to take my side. Instead, I quietly revoked Marlene’s access to the baby monitor.
The next morning, Julian’s phone buzzed.
“Is something wrong with my Nanit app? The feed isn’t loading,” Marlene texted.
When Julian realized what I’d done, he turned on me. “You went behind my back? She feels cut off now. You overreacted.”
“I didn’t know I needed permission to stop being spied on in my own house,” I shot back.
“If it bothers you so much, why don’t you just talk to her instead of being immature?”
“I tried talking to you,” I said, my voice shaking. “You didn’t care.”
He stormed off to work, leaving the air thick with tension.
When Hannah came by later and I told her everything, she listened silently, then smirked. “Give me two days. I’ve got a plan.”
Two nights later, she sent a Zoom invite to our extended family for a “surprise virtual game night.”
When everyone logged in—Marlene, Julian, his aunts, even his dad—there was the usual cheerful chatter. Then Hannah shared her screen.
It was Marlene’s Facebook page.
Hannah smiled brightly. “Tonight’s game is called Invasion or Support? I’ll show a post, and you tell me—does it show love, or is it crossing a line?”
She clicked to the robe photo. The caption appeared in bold on the shared screen.
Silence fell over the call.
“Let’s move on to the next one,” Hannah said cheerfully, scrolling through each invasive post, reading the captions aloud.
Within fifteen minutes, Marlene dropped from the call.
My father-in-law messaged me privately: “I had no idea she was doing this. I’m so sorry.”
Julian finally seemed to grasp the severity of it all. His voice was quiet when he said, “I didn’t know it was that bad.”
I didn’t soften my stance. “If you ever give her access again without asking me first, you can sleep in the crib.”
Marlene made one half-hearted attempt to defend herself.
“It was just a joke,” she texted. “You’re taking it too seriously. Different generation, different humor.”
I left her on read.
Some lines you don’t cross twice—especially when they involve my child, my body, and my home.
Looking back, I realize Hannah is the real hero here. She didn’t just expose Marlene’s behavior—she made Julian see what I’d been dealing with.
Because love doesn’t involve turning someone’s most vulnerable moments into public entertainment. And family doesn’t mean you’re entitled to watch—or judge—everything.
