My FIL’s Forbidden Postpartum Care

After giving birth to a baby boy, my mother-in-law, Margaret—who always preferred sons over daughters—insisted on hiring a postpartum nanny for me.

I was over the moon—until I saw my father-in-law, Richard, standing in the doorway.

Him? My father-in-law as my postpartum caregiver? I must be the first woman in history with this kind of arrangement.

But the way he's taking care of me… something feels off.

Just over two weeks ago, I delivered a healthy baby boy. My in-laws, who'd always favored boys, suddenly treated me like royalty.

Even my notoriously frugal mother-in-law offered to hire a confinement nanny.

I couldn't help but feel smug. Most of my friends had gone through postpartum recovery without any hired help.

Today was supposed to be the nanny's arrival.

Then my husband, Eric Lawrence, called.

"Hey, babe," he said, his voice oddly hesitant.

"Has the nanny gotten there yet?"

"Not yet. Why are you more anxious than I am?"

"Just… Mom and I want to make sure you recover well."

"Sure, honey," I said, rolling my eyes playfully.

Before I could hang up, the bedroom door swung open.

A middle-aged man stood there, travel-worn and sweaty, his face weathered from years of labor. He was tall, with Eric's strong features—just older, rougher.

I shrieked.

"Father-in-law?!"

It was the middle of summer, and I was in nothing but a thin nightgown. I yanked a fleece blanket around myself, my face burning. How much had he seen? I wanted to melt into the floor.

I barely knew Richard. He worked in Lancaster and rarely visited. Neither Eric nor Margaret ever talked about his job.

On holidays, he'd show up, sit silently at dinner, barely speaking—even to his own wife. He'd leave early, come back late, like a ghost in his own home.

Now, he gave me an awkward half-smile.

"Vivian, didn't mean to scare you."