My mother-in-law threw a pot of boiling soup at me after I refused to let her legally adopt my baby. Now she’s lost in the drama she created.
I’m seven months pregnant with my first child, and my mother-in-law, Margaret, has been obsessed with my pregnancy since day one. She keeps talking about her deceased son, Nicholas, who died in a car accident when he was twelve. Nicholas wasn’t my boyfriend’s brother; he was Margaret’s son from her first marriage. My boyfriend, George, was only three when Nicholas died and barely knew him.
Last Tuesday, Margaret invited me over for lunch to “discuss wedding plans.” But the second I walked in, I saw legal documents spread all over her kitchen table.
“I’ve been working with my lawyer on the adoption papers,” she said cheerfully, stirring a pot on the stove. “Everything is ready for you and George to sign. Once the baby is born, I’ll be the legal mother, and you can be like an aunt who visits.”
I thought I’d misheard her. “What adoption papers?”
Her face lit up. “For Nicholas, silly! Well, for the baby, but it’s really Nicholas coming back to me. I’ve waited twenty years for this chance to raise him properly. Last time, his father took him in the car that day. This time, I’ll keep him safe forever.”
“Margaret,” I said, my voice shaking slightly, “this is *our* baby. George’s and mine. We’re not giving our child up for adoption.”
That’s when she got scary. She stood up and started pacing, muttering about how I didn’t understand that Nicholas chose to come back through me. “You’re just the vessel,” she said, pointing a finger at my belly. “Nicholas needed a way to return to me, and you happen to be dating George. But make no mistake, that’s my son in there.”
She leaned closer, her eyes gleaming. “My lawyer says if you refuse, I can petition for custody based on your mental fitness.”
I stood up to leave. “Margaret, I’m calling George. This is insane.”
“Sit down,” she snapped, her voice sharp as glass. “You’re going to sign these papers.”
“Actually, I’m leaving.” I grabbed my purse and headed toward the door.
That’s when she lost it completely. She grabbed the pot of soup from the stove and hurled the boiling liquid at me. I screamed as the scalding soup splashed across my shoulder and arm. The smell of chicken noodle was everywhere.
“You can’t steal my son twice!” she shrieked as I ran out the door.
I drove straight to the emergency room. A nurse took photos of the burns and pulled noodles from my hair while giving me ointment and pain medication. She asked if I wanted to file a police report, but I told her I needed to talk to George first.
When I got home, George took one look at my bandaged arm and freaked out. But when I told him what happened, he didn’t believe me at first.
“Mom would never do that,” he said, shaking his head. “She’s just been emotional about Nicholas lately because his birthday is coming up. Are you sure you didn’t accidentally knock something over?”
I wordlessly showed him the ER paperwork and the photos the nurse had taken. The burns were clearly splash patterns. I still had flecks of carrot in my hair. Then, I told him about the adoption papers.
George went white. “She wants to… adopt our baby? That can’t be real.”
He called his mom. She immediately started sobbing, claiming I was a liar who was trying to “steal Nicholas” from her again.
“I have the papers right here, George!” she cried over the phone. “Your girlfriend is being selfish. Nicholas deserves better than her. She’s probably not even really pregnant. Did you see the ultrasounds yourself?”
That comment made George pause. We’d been trying for two years, and he was there for every single doctor’s appointment. “Mom, what lawyer did you talk to?” he asked, his voice hardening.
“That’s not important!” she said defensively. “What matters is getting Nicholas back. I’ve already decorated his room—I mean, the nursery at my house.”
George hung up and looked at me, his eyes wide with horror. “She’s lost it. Let me call my dad.”
When George’s dad heard what happened, he wasn’t surprised. “Your mother needs help,” he said gravely. “She’s been planning this for months. She’s been buying baby clothes and telling the neighbors she’s adopting. I found a savings account she labeled ‘Nicholas’s Second Chance Fund’ with $30,000 in it. She’s been talking to Nicholas’s old photos, telling them he’s coming home soon.”
George was horrified. He had no idea his mom had gotten this bad.
The next day, Margaret showed up at our apartment uninvited, carrying a brand-new car seat and a diaper bag, acting as if nothing had happened.
“I brought supplies for when Nicholas comes home with me,” she announced, trying to push past me into our home.
George blocked the doorway. “Mom, you burned my fiancée with soup. You are not adopting our baby. You are not welcome here.”
“I didn’t burn anyone,” she said, her voice getting higher and more frantic. “She’s the one who’s trying to burn me by keeping Nicholas away! I have rights! I’m his mother!”
“Nicholas is dead, Mom,” George said quietly, his voice breaking. “This is *our* baby. Not Nicholas.”
Margaret started screaming, accusing us of “murdering Nicholas all over again” and threatening that her lawyer would hear about this. She claimed she’d already told the hospital she was the baby’s mother and had power of attorney.
George called his dad, and they decided Margaret needed an immediate psychiatric evaluation.
When the paramedics arrived, they found her sitting in our hallway, rocking the empty car seat back and forth, singing a soft lullaby and calling the empty space “Nicholas.”
