I’m a few months postpartum and I feel like I’m losing my mind.
Pregnancy was brutal, and the sleepless nights were almost too much. But our daughter Emma is perfect.
After I gave birth, instead of helping me heal, my husband Jake became obsessed with my body.
I slapped his hand away once.
It started small.
“You’re not really going to eat all that, are you?”
Or, “Your face is puffy. Maybe cut back on the salt?”
Then he moved on to my stomach.
“Wow, it’s still pretty big, huh?”
He’d grab my belly and jiggle it, laughing.
I slapped his hand away once.
“Don’t do that.”
“I just had a baby, Jake.”
He shrugged. “Relax. I’m just joking.”
The “jokes” kept coming.
He’d stand behind me while I got dressed.
“Babe… your thighs didn’t used to touch like that.”
I stared at him in the mirror.
“I just had a baby, Jake.”
“They actually care.”
“Yeah,” he said, “but you’ve also let yourself gain way more than you needed to. You should start working on it. I don’t want to be embarrassed going out with you.”
I felt my stomach drop.
“Embarrassed?”
He nodded like it was obvious.
“Look at my friends’ wives. They bounced back. They actually care.”
Just cucumbers.
I went into the bathroom and cried so quietly the fan almost covered it.
A few weeks later, not long after I gave birth, he came home from work with this smug expression and a grocery bag.
“Got you something,” he said.
He dumped it on the counter.
Cucumbers.
Just cucumbers.
“You’re kidding.”
I looked at the pile, then at him.
“Um. Okay. Where’s the rest?”
He smiled like he’d solved world hunger.
“These,” he said, completely serious, “and water should be your best friends now. You want to fit through doors again, right?”
I laughed because it sounded so ridiculous.
“You’re kidding.”
“You’ve been overdoing it.”
He shook his head.
“I’m not. Cucumbers are basically zero calories. Snack on those instead of… whatever you’ve been eating.”
“I had oatmeal and an egg today,” I said.
He rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, plus that muffin yesterday, and whatever you had when I wasn’t here. Babe, be honest. You’ve been overdoing it.”
“I’m breastfeeding,” I snapped. “I’m starving all the time.”
It felt easier to give in than to fight.
“Or your body is used to overeating,” he said. “You don’t want to stay like this, right?”
Something in me just… folded.
I was already exhausted and raw and hanging by a thread.
It felt easier to give in than to fight.
So I stopped eating sweets completely.
I lived on salads and protein shakes and those stupid cucumbers.
Don’t undo your progress.
I fed Emma around the clock while my own body felt like it was running on fumes.
I’d open the fridge and hear his voice in my head.
Do you really need that?
How many calories is that?
Don’t undo your progress.
The worst part is, the scale started going down.
Just make him happy.
But instead of feeling happy, I felt trapped.
If I lost weight, it proved he was right.
If I didn’t, it proved I was failing.
I was dizzy, moody, and hungry, but I kept telling myself, Just get through it. Just make him happy. Then things will go back to normal.
They didn’t.
The breaking point came at his mom’s birthday dinner.
Nothing fit.
Now, my MIL, Linda, was never openly cruel to me.
Just… distant. Formal. Polite-but-cold.
I always felt like she tolerated me, not loved me.
Her birthday is a big deal in their family. Everyone dresses up, there’s music, wine, and way too much food.
I stood in front of my closet that day almost in tears.
Nothing fit.
He frowned.
I squeezed myself into a stretchy black dress that was technically my size but made me feel like a sausage.
Jake walked in and looked me up and down.
“You’re wearing that?”
My chest tightened.
“What’s wrong with it?” I asked.
He frowned.
My cheeks burned.
“It’s just tight. It shows… everything. Maybe pick something more flattering.”
“This is the only non-maternity dress that zips,” I said.
He sighed like I was being unreasonable on purpose.
“Fine. Just… don’t go crazy with the food, okay? My mom always makes a ton. I don’t want you to undo all your ‘progress.'”
My cheeks burned.
I said nothing.
Her voice was softer than I’d ever heard it.
We got to his parents’ house, and the smell hit me like a truck.
Roast beef, potatoes, garlic bread, something cheesy in the oven.
My stomach growled embarrassingly loud.
Linda opened the door.
“Hi, sweetie,” she said to me, then reached for Emma. “There’s my girl.”
Her voice was softer than I’d ever heard it.
I took salad.
Inside, the dining table was packed.
Bowls, platters, sauces, a giant chocolate cake on a stand like the centerpiece of a commercial.
Everyone started filling their plates.
I took some salad.
A bit of meat.
No bread, no potatoes, nothing creamy.
One small slice.
I could feel Jake watching me.
When he saw the sad little pile on my plate, he gave this tiny approving nod.
Like I was a dog who hadn’t begged at the table.
I wanted to throw my fork at him.
The whole meal, the cake tantalized me from the middle of the table.
I kept sneaking glances at it.
My heart was pounding.
I told myself, You’ve been so good. One small slice. You’re breastfeeding. You need the extra calories. It’s just cake.
I finished my salad and drank water like it could fill the hole in my stomach.
Eventually, Linda stood up, smiling.
“Who wants cake?”
There were cheers, laughs, the usual chaos.
She started cutting big, generous pieces and handing them out.
And that’s when it happened.
My heart was pounding.
I hesitated, then finally pushed my plate forward.
Just one slice. Just a small one. Please.
She turned toward me with the knife, ready to serve.
And that’s when it happened.
Jake spoke, loudly, in front of everyone.
I could feel every eye land on me.
“No, babe. That’s enough for you. You don’t need cake. Let’s not undo all your ‘progress,’ okay?”
The room froze.
Someone gave this awkward little laugh that sounded more like a cough.
Heat flooded my face.
I could feel every eye land on me.
On my dress. On my body. On my stupid empty plate.
I assumed Linda would ignore it.
Tears filled my eyes, and my vision blurred.
I felt like a child being scolded in public.
Humiliated. Exposed. Tiny.
I didn’t say a word.
Or laugh it off.
“Stand up.”
Or maybe even agree with him.
Instead, she calmly set down the cake knife, picked up her spoon, and stood up.
She looked straight at Jake.
Her face was composed.
Her eyes were not.
“Son,” she said. “Stand up.”
He looked like he was about to get grounded.
The entire room went silent.
Jake went pale.
“Mom, what are you—”
“Stand. Up.”
He pushed his chair back and stood.
He looked like he was about to get grounded at 30.
A couple of people chuckled, then went dead quiet again.
She didn’t raise her voice.
That somehow made it worse.
“I carried you for nine months,” she said. “I cooked for you. I fed you. I watched you eat everything I put on your plate and ask for seconds.”
A couple of people chuckled, then went dead quiet again.
“And I will not sit here and watch you starve your wife after she carried and birthed your child.”
Jake opened his mouth, then shut it.
She pointed at me. My hands shook.
“That woman grew your baby,” she said. “Her body is not your project. Her food is not yours to control. And if you ever speak to her like that again, you will not be welcome in my home.”
No one moved.
No one breathed.
Jake opened his mouth, then shut it.
“Mom, I was just—”
“You were not joking,” she cut in. “I’ve seen how little she ate tonight. And that while she has a baby to breastfeed. No more.”
Then she turned toward me.
Her face softened in a way I had never seen.
She cut a huge slice of cake.
Way bigger than I would’ve dared to take.
“You can eat cake in my house.”
She placed it gently on my plate.
“Eat,” she said quietly. “Never allow yourself to be treated this way again.”
That was it for me.
I started crying.
Through the tears, I stammered a barely audible, “Thank you.”
She rested her hand on my shoulder.
The car ride home was dead silent.
“Sweetheart,” she said, “you grew my granddaughter. You can eat cake in my house.”
I took a bite and it melted in my mouth.
Jake sat down slowly and didn’t say another word.
Not about the cake.
Not about my body.
Nothing.
He glared at me.
The car ride home was dead silent.
When we walked in the door, he finally snapped.
“You made me look like a jerk in front of my whole family,” he said.
I set the diaper bag down and turned to him.
“I made you?” I asked. My voice sounded weirdly calm. “Or you did?”
He glared at me.
“You were trying to control me.”
“My mom always overreacts. You know how she is.”
“She reacted,” I said. “To you humiliating your wife at a table full of people.”
“I was trying to help you stay on track.”
“No,” I said. “You were trying to control me. There’s a difference.”
He stared at me like an angry child who’d just been scolded, and it was the second time that day I saw him for what he truly was.
He slept on the couch that night.
“How are you feeling today?”
The next afternoon, Linda showed up at our door with a casserole dish.
Jake opened it.
“Mom?”
She walked right past him.
“Hi, honey,” she said to me. “How are you feeling today?”
I shrugged, holding Emma. “Tired. Hungry.”
“You’re going to make dinner for your wife.”
She nodded like that confirmed something.
“I made dinner,” she said. “Lasagna. Full-fat, real cheese, actual food.”
She set it down, then turned to Jake.
“You’re going to make dinner for your wife tonight,” she said. “Then tomorrow. Then the next day. And you’re going to keep doing it.”
He laughed once.
“Are you serious?”
“Very,” she said. “You want to monitor what she eats? Fine. You’re now responsible for making sure she eats enough. No more starving her and calling it ‘help.'”
He scoffed.
“Mom, this is ridiculous.”
She stepped closer.
“If you ever shame her again,” she said, low and firm, “you answer to me. Do you understand?”
I’d send a picture of a sad salad.
He looked away.
“Yeah. I got it.”
She started checking in after that.
Texting me.
“What’d you eat today?”
I’d send a picture of a sad salad.
Slowly, the comments stopped.
She’d reply, “And?” and then, “Tell that son of mine he knows this isn’t a proper meal.”
Sometimes she’d show up at dinner unannounced.
Sometimes with groceries.
Sometimes just to sit at the table and watch Jake cook while I held Emma and tried not to cry from relief.
Every time he complained, she shot him a deadly look.
Slowly, the comments stopped.
It didn’t magically fix everything.
Then they disappeared.
He never commented on my body again.
Not once.
It didn’t magically fix everything.
I still had his voice in my head when I looked in the mirror.
I still flinched when I ate dessert in front of him for a while.
He looked wrecked.
But I also had Linda’s voice now.
Her body is not your project.
Eat. You’ve earned it.
A few months later, Jake sat down next to me while I was feeding Emma.
He looked wrecked.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For how I treated you.”
I don’t know exactly what our future looks like.
I didn’t rush to make him feel better.
“You hurt me,” I said. “You made me feel disgusting when I was already at my lowest.”
He nodded, eyes shiny.
“I know. I’ve been talking to a therapist. About… control. And image. And my dad. And all of it. I’m trying. I don’t want to be that guy anymore.”
I don’t know exactly what our future looks like.
Every time I eat cake now, I take an extra bite for her.
We’re in couples therapy now.
I’m learning how to eat like a person again, not a problem to be solved.
He’s learning that my body is not something for him to control.
But I know this:
When people talk about “monster-in-laws,” I think about Linda standing up at that table, staring down her grown son.
And every time I eat cake now, I take an extra bite for her.