I used to believe I could read people easily, especially the ones who married into my family. My son had always been the steady sort — hardworking, gentle, endlessly patient — and I thought I understood his world well enough. So each time I visited their home and saw dishes stacked, laundry piling up, and my daughter-in-law curled beneath a blanket while the baby fussed, I let irritation harden inside me. In my mind, she was simply overwhelmed or maybe uninterested in the responsibilities that came with motherhood. When I walked in one evening to find my son cooking one-handed while bouncing the baby on his hip, something inside me snapped. I marched into their bedroom, found her pale and half-awake, and spoke the words I regret more deeply than I can describe: “Must be nice to nap while my son raises your child.” Her eyes filled with something that wasn’t anger — it was fear, shame, and exhaustion I had refused to see.Continue reading…
