11/16/2025
At eight months along, Mark and I decided to throw a modest baby shower in our living room.
Mom‑in‑law Linda, hearing the plan, frowned and offered, “Why don’t I host it? I’ll make it look classy.”
She thrives on the spotlight—especially when everyone raves about her cooking.
I politely declined.
I spent two long, sweat‑slicked days baking mini quiches, sliders, fruit trays, cupcakes, and a lemon cake that read, “Welcome Baby Harper.”
Linda stayed “to help.” By the time I hit the pillow, she was still humming in the kitchen, pretending to tidy.
The next morning, the house was a disaster. Spoiled food, a dark fridge, a loose plug dangling from the wall—everything was ruined.
Before I could even think of a retort, Linda sauntered in with coffee, quipping, “The fridge was noisy last night, so I unplugged it. You shouldn’t have made so much food—pregnant women shouldn’t stress.”
Mark froze, but instead of fury, he leaned in, placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder and whispered, “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”
He called in a full catering service—roasted chicken, sides, desserts, even a chocolate fountain. The baby shower turned into a flawless celebration.
Linda, thinking she’d won by belittling my efforts, was blindsided when Mark stood, raised his glass, and said, “First, I want to address my mom.”
