My Husband and MIL Absolutely Ruined My Birthing Experience, Is My Revenge Justified

When I realized my husband, Carlisle, wasn’t listening to me, I knew my birthing experience was going to be a nightmare. But as I lay there in labor, ignored and in pain, I made a decision: neither Carlisle nor his overbearing mother would ever control me again.

If you had asked me five years ago, I would’ve told you I had life all figured out. I had a good job in marketing, a cozy little apartment, and, most importantly, I was madly in love with Carlisle.

We met at a friend’s housewarming party—one of those nights where you don’t expect anything significant to happen, and then your entire world shifts. Carlisle was kind, funny, and thoughtful. Six years later, we were married, and I thought life was perfect.

Then I found out I was pregnant with our first baby, a daughter. We were overjoyed. Everything felt like a dream. But looking back, I should have seen the cracks long before Bella was even born.

Carlisle changed the moment we found out about the pregnancy. His usual laid-back, supportive nature vanished, replaced by an obsession with the idea of a home birth. It started when I was only six weeks along, and we were sitting on the couch.

“We should do a home birth,” he said out of nowhere.

I laughed, thinking he was joking. “Carlisle, I’m barely processing the fact that I’m pregnant. You’re already talking about home births?”

But he wasn’t laughing. “It’s more natural. Less medical intervention.”

I remember feeling uneasy. “What if something goes wrong?”

“Nothing will go wrong. We’ll hire a doula, and my mom can help,” he said firmly, leaving no room for discussion.

I brushed it off, figuring we had time to decide. But Carlisle didn’t let up. Every conversation, every doctor’s appointment came back to the home birth. He even began cutting me off during appointments, insisting to my doctor that we were having the baby at home, as if I had no say in the matter.

“Can you stop doing that?” I snapped one day after he interrupted me again. “I haven’t decided yet!”

“You don’t need to decide,” he replied coldly. “This is what’s best for us.”

His mother, Martha, joined the campaign. She cornered me one afternoon, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “You know, Scarlett, all the women in our family have had home births. It’s tradition.”

“But I’m worried about the risks,” I said.

Martha waved away my concerns. “Oh, don’t be silly. You’ll be fine.”

By 36 weeks, I was exhausted—emotionally and physically. Carlisle and Martha had teamed up, making me feel like I was the unreasonable one. I told Carlisle I would go to the hospital without him if I had to, but he acted as if he hadn’t heard me.

When I went into labor at 39 weeks, I was terrified. “Please, Carlisle,” I begged. “Take me to the hospital. I don’t feel safe at home.”

But instead of listening, he and Martha called the doula.

I labored for three agonizing days, the last 22 hours spent in active labor. Carlisle and Martha left me alone for hours at a time. The pain was unbearable, and something inside me told me that something was wrong, but no one cared. The doula only said that if I was still pushing after 24 hours, then we’d consider going to the hospital.

When Bella was finally born, I didn’t feel the joy or love everyone talks about. I didn’t cry from happiness. I cried out of pure relief that it was over. I was too exhausted to even hold her.

At my first postpartum check-up, my doctor was shocked when I told her I had given birth at home. “Scarlett, we had a hospital plan. What happened?”

“Carlisle happened,” I muttered. “He and his mother forced me into it.”

“You’re lucky nothing went wrong,” my doctor said, her voice heavy with concern. “It’s a miracle, honestly.”

Those words stuck with me. I had survived something risky for no reason other than to satisfy Carlisle and Martha. When I got home, I confronted Carlisle.

“You ruined this for me,” I said, tears spilling over. “I was terrified the entire time. That moment—Bella’s birth—I’ll never get it back, and it’s your fault.”

He barely looked up from his phone. “You’re overreacting. Mothers are strong. You should have tried harder.”

That was the breaking point. I was done being treated like an incubator. I started planning my escape.

The house we lived in was mine before we married, a gift from my grandmother. Carlisle always acted like it was ours, but legally, it was mine. I quietly consulted a lawyer, who confirmed that not only was the house mine, but I also had a strong case for full custody of Bella, given the emotional and physical trauma I had endured.

I played along for a few months, pretending everything was fine. I even told Carlisle he might have been right about home births. He relaxed, thinking he had won. But behind the scenes, I was preparing for my exit.

One morning, as Carlisle sipped his coffee, I said calmly, “I’m leaving.”

He looked up, confused. “You can’t just leave.”

“Yes, I can,” I said, pulling out the legal documents. “This is my house, and I’m keeping it. I’m filing for full custody of Bella. You and your mother will never control me again.”

He stared at the papers, his face pale. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” I replied. “You have until tomorrow to pack your things.”

And with that, I walked away, feeling free for the first time in months. I had taken back control of my life, and I was never going to let anyone take it from me again.