I let my mom stay with us after her hip surgery, thinking it’d be temporary. Weeks turned into months, and she started “helping” with our baby—changing routines, criticizing everything I did. One morning I woke up groggy and found the crib empty. My mom sat there smiling and said, “She slept so well after I gave her…”

“…just a little bit of chamomile tea,” she finished, like it was no big deal.

I blinked hard. “Wait. What?”

She nodded, already back to cooing at the baby, who sat bouncing in her lap. “Just a bit! Helps with digestion. My mother gave it to me when I was her age. All natural.”

My heart skipped. I stood there in the doorway, still in my old T-shirt, hair matted to my head, and felt this cold drop of fear creep in. “Mom, she’s six months old. You can’t just—give her things. You didn’t even ask.”

She waved me off like I was being hysterical. “Don’t be dramatic. You millennials think you invented parenting.”

I didn’t yell. I wanted to. But I didn’t.

I just turned around, grabbed my phone, and walked into the hallway. I Googled “chamomile tea for babies.” Every page said the same thing: Don’t do it. Risk of botulism. Allergenic reactions. Dangerous if not prepared properly.

I came back into the room and calmly asked her not to do that again. Told her I appreciated the help, but she needed to run anything like that by me or Mateo first. She gave me this look. The kind that says you’re being ungrateful. And for the rest of the day, she barely spoke to me.

That night, she made her famous arroz caldo and served up a bowl with a smile. “Eat,” she said. “You look tired.”

I wanted to believe it was her way of making peace. But there was something about the way she hovered behind me while I ate, waiting. Watching. And that was just the beginning.

The next few weeks were like walking on eggshells in my own house.

Mom would rewash the baby’s clothes because “my detergent was too harsh.” She rearranged the nursery, took down the blackout curtains, saying “babies need light during the day to know it’s not night.” Every time I brought something up, she’d twist it. “I’m just helping.” “You should be thankful I’m here.” “You don’t know how lucky you are.”

I started second-guessing myself.

Mateo kept saying, “She means well. It’s just her way.” But he wasn’t the one getting side-eyed while nursing. He wasn’t the one who came into the nursery one afternoon and found his mother-in-law trying to get the baby to take a nap—belly down, pillows in the crib.

I nearly screamed.

That night, I told Mateo we needed to talk. Really talk.

We went into the laundry room and closed the door.

“I love her,” I said, “but this isn’t working. She’s not respecting our choices. She’s doing things that could actually hurt the baby.”

He rubbed his eyes. “I know. But she’s recovering, she has nowhere to go.”

“She can recover somewhere else. A rehab center. A short-term rental. I can’t keep doing this. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

It was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded.

“I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

But the next morning, before he even had the chance, something else happened.

I came into the kitchen and found my mom giving the baby mashed bananas. With cinnamon.

“She’s six months,” she said, spoon in hand. “She can start flavors. You’re being too precious.”

I took the spoon gently, put it down, and lifted the baby from the high chair.

“No, Mom,” I said. “Not without us introducing one thing at a time. What if she has a reaction? What if it’s the cinnamon?”

And right then, as if the universe wanted to prove a point, the baby started sneezing. Then rubbing her eyes. Then crying.

I panicked. Mateo rushed in. We called the pediatrician, who told us to monitor for hives or trouble breathing. Said cinnamon allergies weren’t common, but could be real.

We were lucky. Nothing serious happened. Just an irritated nose and a cranky baby.

But I was done.

Mateo and I sat my mom down that night and told her, kindly but firmly, she needed to stay somewhere else. We offered to help pay for a short-term place, somewhere close. She didn’t take it well.

She stood up mid-conversation, muttering about “how ungrateful we were,” grabbed her cane and hobbled into her room, slamming the door.

I cried later. Not from guilt. From exhaustion. From feeling like no matter what I did, I was wrong. I just wanted to be a good mom. And I wanted my own mom to see that.

She left the next morning. Didn’t say goodbye. Just called an Uber and was gone before we finished breakfast.

Weeks went by.

I sent her photos. Updates. She replied with emojis, occasionally. A thumbs up. A heart. Once, “nice.” It was something.

Then one afternoon in September, she called.

Out of the blue.

I picked up, bracing for a guilt trip. But instead, she sounded… softer.

She told me she’d been thinking a lot. That maybe she had overstepped. That she never meant to make me feel small. That it was hard watching me parent because it reminded her of all the ways she’d gotten things wrong.

That last part stunned me.

She said, “You were a colicky baby. I used to cry in the bathroom, so you wouldn’t hear me. Your dad was always working. I didn’t know what I was doing. So when I see you now—so capable, so confident—I guess I felt like, if I could just insert myself, maybe I’d be useful again. Maybe I could still be the mom.”

I sat there, the phone hot against my cheek, and just let it sink in.

I told her I appreciated that. Really. That I never wanted her to feel useless—but I needed boundaries. For my sake, and for the baby’s.

She said she understood.

We started talking more after that. Slowly. Carefully.

She came by one Saturday for lunch and brought lumpia and fresh mangoes. Didn’t offer advice. Didn’t touch the baby gear. Just held her grandbaby when offered, and gave her back when asked.

It felt like a miracle.

But here’s the real twist.

A month later, Mateo got a call from his job—he was being transferred. To Seattle. We had six weeks to move.

I panicked at first. The thought of starting over, finding a new daycare, a new pediatrician, packing with a baby. It felt impossible.

Then my mom called and said, “Let me help.”

I hesitated. But something in her voice told me—this time, it would be different.

And it was.

She came over and packed boxes. She made meals we could freeze. She babysat while I toured apartments virtually. She even labeled every box with colored tape, by room. We joked about it later—she’s a control freak, but when it’s helpful, it’s impressive.

Right before we left, she surprised me.

She handed me a small box. Inside was a tiny journal. Just a few pages.

It had notes from when I was a baby. Handwritten sleep logs. What foods I tried. When I laughed for the first time. There were tear stains on some pages. Doodles in the margins. One page had just two words: “I tried.”

I cried, obviously.

She hugged me and said, “You’re doing so much better than you think. Don’t let the noise get to you.”

We moved. It was hard. But we made it.

Now, my mom and I FaceTime weekly. She asks before giving advice. And when she visits, she brings her own pillow and follows our house rules. She still has opinions—always will—but she keeps them in check.

And I learned something huge through all of it.

Sometimes people act like they’re helping when really they’re trying to heal some old version of themselves.

That doesn’t make it okay. But understanding it helps you stand your ground without burning every bridge.

You don’t have to set yourself on fire to keep the peace. But you don’t have to lock the doors, either.

You just need boundaries and some grace. Both ways.

If this hit home for you—or you’ve been through something similar—share it with someone who might need to hear they’re not alone. ❤️
And don’t forget to like the post if it gave you a little hope.