My Husband and MIL Absolutely Ruined My Birthing Experience – Is My Revenge Justified?

I never thought my life would turn into a story like this. If you’d asked me five years ago, I would’ve told you I had everything figured out. I had a decent job in marketing, a small but cozy apartment, and most importantly, I was madly in love with Carlisle.

We met at a mutual friend’s housewarming party: one of those nights where you think nothing special will happen, and then your entire world shifts. We clicked instantly. He was kind, funny, and thoughtful. We’ve now been together for six years and married for two.

It all started when I discovered I was pregnant with our first baby, our daughter Bella. The name still makes my heart skip. Everything felt perfect like we were living in a dream. But looking back, I should’ve seen the cracks forming before Bella was even born.

When Carlisle found out I was pregnant, his usual laid-back and supportive demeanor changed, and he became obsessed with the idea of a home birth. I remember the first time he brought it up.

We were sitting on the couch, and I was still processing the fact that I was pregnant when he casually mentioned, “I think we should do a home birth.”

I laughed at first. “Carlisle, I don’t even know how I feel about being pregnant yet, and you’re already talking about home births?”

But his face was serious. “I’ve been reading about it. It’s more natural. Less medical intervention.”

“I don’t know… It sounds risky. What if something goes wrong?” I asked, feeling my stomach tighten at the thought.

“Nothing will go wrong. We’ll hire a doula, and my mom can help too,” he said with a tone that left no room for discussion.

I brushed it off then, thinking he’d let it go. After all, I was only six weeks pregnant. I figured we had plenty of time to discuss it, but Carlisle didn’t let up.

Every doctor’s appointment and every conversation about the baby always came back to the home birth.

He started talking over me at the doctor’s office. Every time my OB asked about my birth plan, Carlisle would chime in, cutting me off. “We’re doing it at home,” he’d say, smiling like we were on the same page.

But we weren’t.

“Can you stop doing that?” I snapped one day after an appointment. “I haven’t even decided yet!”

“You don’t need to decide. This is what’s best for us.”

For us? I thought. I was the one carrying this baby, wasn’t I? The arguments started then: small at first, but they grew more frequent as the weeks passed. Carlisle wouldn’t listen, and to make matters worse, his mother, Martha, joined in.

She sat me down one afternoon, all smiles and sweetness, trying to convince me in her way. “You know, Scarlett, we’ve always had home births in our family. It’s tradition,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “You’re part of the family now. You should consider it.”

“I’ve thought about it,” I replied, trying to stay polite. “But I’m concerned about safety. What if something happens to me or the baby?”

Martha waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, that won’t happen. We’ll have a doula. You’re worrying too much.”

I wanted to scream. Why wasn’t anyone taking me seriously? By the time I was 36 weeks pregnant, I was exhausted: mentally and physically.

Carlisle and his mother had teamed up, making me feel like I was the unreasonable one. I told him flat out that I’d take myself to the hospital if I had to. He acted like he didn’t even hear me.

Then we met with the doula. She was just as pushy, feeding into Carlisle’s obsession with home birth. I sat there in silence, feeling alone and helpless.

When I went into labor at 39 weeks, I was terrified. “Please, Carlisle,” I begged. “Take me to the hospital. I don’t feel safe doing this at home.”

But what did Carlisle and Martha do next? It was something I could never have imagined.

Neither of them listened to me. They didn’t care how much pain I was in, or how scared I felt. Instead of taking me seriously, they just called the doula.

The pain was unbearable, and to make things worse, I labored for three days — three days — with the last 22 hours being active labor. It was hell.

I cried the entire time. Something felt wrong inside of me, but no one seemed to care. Carlisle and Martha left me alone for hours, coming in and out as if I wasn’t in excruciating pain.

The doula, who I had never wanted in the first place, dared to tell me that if active pushing went on for more than 24 hours, we’d finally have to go to the hospital. I remember lying there, clutching my belly, thinking, I can’t do this anymore. How much longer can I take this?

I was terrified of staying in labor for another two hours, but I was equally terrified of giving birth right there, in that awful space where no one cared how I felt. I just wanted it to be over.

When Bella was finally born, it wasn’t the magical moment everyone always talks about. I didn’t cry from joy or feel that rush of love. I cried out of pure relief — relief that it was finally over.

I didn’t even want to hold her at first; I was too exhausted. I felt like my body had been through a war, and all I could do was lay there, broken.

My first postpartum appointment with my doctor was the final nail in the coffin. She was shocked when I told her I’d given birth at home. “Scarlett, I don’t understand. We had a hospital plan. What happened?” she asked, her eyes wide with concern.

I wanted to scream. “Carlisle happened! He forced me into it. His mother too. I didn’t want to, but they didn’t care.”

My doctor shook her head, clearly upset. “You’re lucky nothing went wrong, Scarlett. It’s a miracle, honestly.”

That stuck with me: the fact that I had survived something so risky, and for what? To make Carlisle and Martha happy?

When I got home, I confronted Carlisle. “You ruined this for me,” I said, tears threatening to spill over. “I’ll never get that moment back — the moment Bella was born. I was terrified the entire time, and it’s your fault.”

He barely looked up from his phone. “You’re overreacting, Scarlett. Mothers are strong. You should have tried harder to be strong.”

“Are you serious?” I shouted, my voice shaking with anger. “I’ll never forget that pain. And if we ever have another baby — which, by the way, I never want to go through again — I’m not having a home birth!”

Carlisle shrugged like it was no big deal. “We’ll see about that,” he said casually as if my trauma didn’t matter at all.

That was it. I’d had enough. I was done with being treated like an incubator by my husband and his overbearing mother. They had no respect for me — none. So, I decided to play their game.

A few months after Bella was born, I started acting like everything was fine. I told Carlisle that maybe he was right; maybe home births were better after all. “I’ve been thinking about it,” I said one night, forcing a smile. “I might have overreacted. Home births really are the best option for the future.”

His eyes lit up, and I saw him relax for the first time in months. He thought he’d won. I even played nice with Martha, attending family dinners and asking her about her experiences with home births. I smiled and nodded through all of it, even though I was boiling with resentment inside.

But behind the scenes? I was planning my escape.

The house we lived in had been mine long before Carlisle and I married. I inherited it from my grandmother and had never made a big deal about it.

Carlisle always treated it like it was ours, but legally, it was still mine. And I was going to make sure it stayed that way.

I quietly visited a lawyer to confirm. I told him everything: about how Carlisle and Martha had bullied me into that home birth, about the emotional and physical trauma I’d endured.

My lawyer assured me that the house would remain mine in the event of a divorce. He also said I had a strong case for full custody of Bella, considering how I had been treated during my pregnancy and labor.

I felt empowered for the first time in months. I wasn’t just sitting back and letting them control me anymore.

I decided it was time after one particularly awful family dinner where Martha and Carlisle spoke about future children like I was some breeding machine. I couldn’t stand one more second of their arrogance.

As Carlisle sat sipping his coffee one morning, I calmly said, “I’m leaving.”

He looked up, confused. “What do you mean, leaving? You can’t just leave.”

“Yes, I can,” I replied, my voice steady. “You can stay here with your traditions and your home births, but I’m done.”

He blinked, clearly shocked. “This is our house, Scarlett. You can’t kick me out.”

I stood up, walked to the counter, and pulled out the legal documents. “No, Carlisle, this is my house. I’ve spoken to a lawyer. I’m keeping the house, and I’m filing for full custody of Bella. You and your mother will never treat me like this again.”

He stared at the papers, his face draining of color. “You — you can’t be serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” I said, standing tall. “You have until tomorrow to pack your things and leave. I’m not doing this anymore.”

I didn’t wait for him to respond. I turned and walked out of the room, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders. I was in control for the first time in what felt like forever. I was finally free.

If this story tugged at your heartstrings, here’s another one you might like: Scarlett is at her wit’s end, balancing a demanding career and a teething baby while her husband, Dave, sleeps peacefully with noise-canceling headphones. When he dismisses her pleas for help, Scarlett hatches a cunning plan to make him experience her sleepless nights.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.