At eight months pregnant, I came home from a doctor’s appointment to find my husband Evan pacing nervously. He admitted his mother, Lydia, was “lonely and depressed,” and he thought she should move into our house for support — even into the nursery we’d spent months preparing for our baby.When I opened the door, I was stunned. Our crib was shoved aside, replaced with Lydia’s bed and comforter. She smiled at me like nothing was wrong and even joked that my hand-painted clouds were “a bit childish for a guest room.”
