When my MIL begged for access to our baby monitor to feel closer to her grandchild, I reluctantly agreed. At first, her sweet texts made it seem harmless, but then her comments started getting personal. That’s when I realized she wasn’t just watching the baby… she was watching me.
I’d barely recovered from childbirth when my mother-in-law called.
You know that feeling when you’re still tender everywhere, when walking to the bathroom feels like a marathon? That’s where I was when my mother-in-law’s voice came through the phone, thick with emotion.
“My heart is breaking that I can’t be there,” she said, and I could hear her sniffling.
My husband and I live on the East Coast, while Linda lives in California. Which, if I’m being honest, works out for the best.
Linda can be… a lot. I do my best to be kind and keep the peace, but between yearly holiday visits and the occasional phone call, that’s about all I have the bandwidth for. Any closer, and I’m not sure our marriage would survive the proximity.
“I just want to feel close to that precious little girl,” Linda continued. “Please, could you just give me access to the baby monitor? I can’t visit often, and it would mean so much if I could watch her grow up despite the distance.”
I instantly regretted telling her we used a camera that streamed via an app.
Look, I didn’t want to sound paranoid, but inviting her into our nursery? At all hours? It felt like opening our front door and leaving it that way.
But my husband squeezed my hand and smiled that gentle smile of his.
“It’ll make her feel connected,” he whispered. “She just wants to see the baby, that’s all.”
So I said yes. I told myself it was fine. Sweet, even. Just a digital grandma trying to feel close to the little one she couldn’t visit yet.
How wrong I was.
At first, it really was sweet. She’d text me things like, “She looks like a little angel when she sleeps 😍,” or “That stretch she did with her arms?? My HEART.”
It made me smile, you know? It almost made me feel seen, like someone else was watching this tiny miracle with me at 3 a.m. when the rest of the world was fast asleep.
But then it turned… strange.
You see, she wasn’t just watching the baby. She was watching me, too.
One night, I’d dragged myself to the nursery for the third feeding since midnight.
I was breastfeeding in the rocking chair, half-asleep, swaying back and forth in that zombie-like trance all new moms know.
The next morning, there was her text: “Looks like you were up late!”
My stomach dropped. Linda and boundaries have always been distant acquaintances at best, but this was taking it to a whole new level.
I started paying attention then.
I read through every text searching for signs that she was abusing her baby monitor privileges to scrutinize me instead of just having a cute long-distance relationship with her granddaughter.
The next hint came a few days later.
I was changing Emma’s diaper, singing softly to soothe her fussing.
It was a sad song, something my mom used to sing to me. A private, tender moment between mother and daughter.
My phone buzzed a few minutes later.
“Interesting choice of song. You always go for the sad ones, don’t you?” Linda had texted.
Okay… not a comment I appreciated, but it didn’t really count as crossing a line, did it? Considering that we knew she had access to the camera, and that was the type of thing someone might say if they’d just walked into the room.
But less than an hour later, I got exactly the proof I’d been looking for.
I’d just put the baby down when my sister burst into the nursery, phone in hand.
“Have you seen—”
I cut her off quickly, pushing her out of the room.
“You could knock, you know?” I told her as I pulled the nursery door shut behind us.
“This is way too messed up to waste time knocking. Have you seen what Linda just posted?”
“What?” I asked, adjusting my milk-stained robe. “What are you talking about, Sarah?”
“I was scrolling on Facebook when this popped into my recommendations.” She showed me the post on her phone.
It was a screenshot from the baby monitor showing me in the same ratty robe I was wearing at that moment, breastfeeding Emma.
The caption made my blood turn to ice: “Should I tell my DIL she should invest in a nicer robe if she wants to stay attractive for my son? This one’s seen enough milk, if you ask me. 😳😅”
But the nightmare was just beginning.
My fingers trembled as I opened Facebook on my phone. It wasn’t just one post. Oh, no. She’d been busy.
There was a screenshot of Emma crying with the caption “Some moms just don’t get how to soothe.🙄”
Another showed me yawning, looking absolutely destroyed, with the caption: “When you think a $400 baby swing will save your sleep but you still look like this 😬 #newmomlife.”
There was even one of me reading beside the crib that she’d captioned, “Doesn’t look like bonding to me.”
Linda hadn’t been watching us with love and longing. She’d been broadcasting our most private moments to anyone who would look.
I had to tell my husband.
That evening, I told him everything. I had Linda’s Facebook page open on my phone, ready to show him the proof, but he just shrugged.
“She’s just being observant,” he said. “It’s not that deep.”
“Not that deep?” I stared at him. “She posted a photo of me breastfeeding and said I needed a new robe so you’d still find me attractive.”
“She’s probably just trying to be funny,” he said. “We didn’t grow up with boundaries like that.”
Right. And that meant my breastmilk moments were public property now.
I didn’t say anything else. Why bother when he wasn’t really listening to me anyway? Instead, I took matters into my own hands.
I quietly opened the camera app and revoked Linda’s access. I didn’t text her about it or tell my husband what I’d done.
The drama started the next morning.
My husband’s phone buzzed with a text from his mother: “Is something wrong with my Nanit app? The feed isn’t loading.”
When I realized what I’d done, he turned on me.
“You went behind my back? She feels cut off. You overreacted. This isn’t worth blowing up the family.”
“I didn’t realize I needed permission to stop being spied on in my own house,” I said.
“If it bugs you so much, why don’t you just talk to her instead of being so immature?”
“I tried talking to you last night, and you didn’t care,” I retorted.
We argued then, and he left for work in a fury. But what was I supposed to have done?
When Sarah came by later, I told her everything. She listened quietly, but I could see the wheels turning.
“Give me two days,” she said. “I have a plan to teach them both a lesson.”
On Saturday night, Sarah sent out a Zoom invite to our extended family for a surprise virtual game night.
Everyone logged in: my mother-in-law, my husband, aunts, and even my father-in-law. Everyone started chatting about what game we were going to play.
Then, Sarah shared her screen.
She had Linda’s Facebook page open on her browser, showing the photo of me in my robe, exhausted and exposed.
Sarah smiled sweetly at the camera. “Thanks for joining everyone! Tonight, we’re going to play a game called Invasion or Support?”
What followed was a digital reckoning.
“This is a screenshot from the baby monitor that Linda posted on Facebook,” Sarah announced. She read the caption out loud. “What do you say, everyone? Is this invasion or support?”
But nobody answered her. At the top of the screen, our faces were a gallery of wide eyes, flushed cheeks, and dropped jaws.
“Let’s look at the next one,” Sarah declared cheerfully.
Sarah scrolled through post after post of me and Emma, reading the captions aloud, asking everyone if it was invasive or not.
Less than 15 minutes later, Linda dropped out of the call.
The aftermath was swift. My father-in-law messaged me privately: “I’m so sorry. I had no idea she was doing this.”
My husband finally saw the full scope of what had been happening.
“I… I didn’t know it was that bad,” he said, his voice small.
I didn’t sugarcoat my new boundary: “If you ever give her tech access again without asking me first, you can sleep in the crib.”
My mother-in-law made one weak attempt at damage control.
“It was just a joke,” she texted me. “You’re taking this too seriously. Generational differences.”
I left her on read. Some lines don’t get crossed twice. Not when they involve my body, my child, my home.
Looking back now, I realize my sister is the hero of this story. She held up a mirror, not just to my mother-in-law, but to my husband, who was so quick to brush it off.
She showed them what invasion really looks like when you strip away the excuses and the family politics.
Because love doesn’t steal your most vulnerable moments and turn them into entertainment.
