It’s hard to understand someone fully without understanding where they come from — not just their personality or habits, but the family they grew up in, the roles people played, and how those roles shaped them.
D often talked about her parents — especially her father. He was calm, thoughtful, intelligent — the kind of person who listened before speaking, who analyzed before reacting. She admired him for it. She would compare me to him often, especially when it came to household responsibilities.
“My dad always helped around the house,” she’d say. “He cooked, he cleaned, he made sure everything ran smoothly.”
I understood what she meant — she wanted partnership, balance, shared effort. But I also wondered: if her mother didn’t work, what exactly was keeping her from doing those things herself? What made her expect so much from her husband?
D told me many times that she and her mother didn’t get along — that her mom was manipulative, impulsive, and emotionally controlling. She said she couldn’t stand being under the same roof as her. That’s why she and her brother had moved out years ago — not just out of necessity, but survival. They lived in a different city, an hour and a half away — just far enough to avoid constant visits, yet close enough to maintain some sense of connection.
In one of our earlier stories, we talked about the family trip to her home country — how within days of seeing her mother again, D was already overwhelmed. How even with the best intentions, old tensions resurfaced like waves crashing against the shore.
But now, something had changed.
Now that D was pregnant, she and her mother were suddenly closer than ever. It felt like they spoke daily — sometimes multiple times a day. And every time D felt even slightly unwell — a twinge of nausea, a sharp cramp, anything — she called her mother first.
Not me. Not my family, who lived nearby and could actually help.
She’d call her mother — 15,000 kilometers away — and worry her endlessly. Then later, after seeing a doctor or getting reassurance, she’d call back to say everything was fine.
It frustrated me. Not because I didn’t want her to talk to her mom — but because it felt like she was choosing emotional drama over practical support. Like she needed to stir the pot, even when there was no fire.
Then came the question of where she wanted to give birth.
She wanted to go back to her home country — not just for the birth, but for the recovery period, too. Said she wanted her mother close by to help her afterward.
I asked her to reconsider.
With my father’s health continuing to decline, I couldn’t leave my country — not for weeks, not for months. My mother needed my support here. I didn’t want to be forced into a choice between my newborn children and my dying father.
So I offered a compromise.
I told her I’d fly her mother here instead. She could stay with us for the full three months allowed on her visa — more than enough time to support D through labor and early motherhood. Once the babies were older and strong enough to travel, we could visit her parents’ home together. She finally agreed — partly because we had already prepared the nursery, partly because staying here made more logistical sense. Two homes filled with baby supplies, across two continents, didn’t make sense — nor did it feel right.
We reached out to her mother and started planning her trip.
That’s when things got complicated.
Her mother had another plan — one that caught me off guard. She wanted to be in the U.S. at the same time — not to visit us, but to be with her sister, who was having surgery.
At first, I thought it was strange — her choosing to be with her sister instead of her only grandchild’s arrival. But okay… I tried to be understanding. Her sister was going through something serious. Maybe she just wanted to be there for her. I then remembered that her sister had adult children who could also be there for her during this difficult time.
Except the timing was uncanny.
Her sister’s surgery was scheduled just a week before D was due.
Still, I tried to be reasonable. I thought maybe she could go to the US for a few days before her sisters surgery, then to come here prior to D’s due date. But her mother kept pushing — asking for more time, more flexibility. When we tried to book flights based on the dates we could afford, she resisted.
Finally, we gave her two options:
One flight arriving two days before D’s due date.
Another arriving the day after.
She chose the latter.
I don’t know why I was surprised.
I had been trying to do something kind — bringing her mother across the world to support her daughter during one of the most vulnerable times of her life. I thought I was doing the right thing.
But I was walking into something I didn’t understand.
Something deeper.
Something I hadn’t seen coming.
And unknowingly, I was stepping into a current that would pull my marriage under.
BPD Chronicles 