I’m forty. My name is Lauren Mitchell. I’m married to Mark Mitchell, and I’m the mother of a child we waited nearly twenty years to have. After giving birth, I was physically drained, emotionally raw, and completely focused on my baby. That’s when Mark’s mother, Susan Mitchell, decided I was the weak link—the easiest way to take everything from me.
Susan Mitchell is my mother-in-law. She’s always believed she was the center of her son’s life. Before me, she made the calls, got the attention, and decided what was “best” for him. She never liked me—especially because I came from a rough family with a history of alcoholism. More than once, Susan said that someone with my background could never be a good mother.
After our baby was born, Mark’s focus shifted fully to me and our child. Susan saw that as losing control. Instead of accepting it, she started moving quietly and strategically, hiding her intentions behind “concern” and doubts about my ability to be a mom.
When my husband stopped listening to his mother’s words, Susan realized she was losing control of her son—and decided to get it back by destroying me with actions.
At first, Susan stuck to comments. She talked about my body, how much I’d changed after birth, and how motherhood was “serious responsibility.” She always said it in front of family, calm and confident, like she was stating facts. Every time, she added she was “only worried about the baby.”
The real break happened at a family Christmas dinner. In front of everyone, Susan handed me a gift—a dress three sizes too small. When I tried to smile and set it aside, she laughed and said loudly,
“Wow… I didn’t realize you’d gained that much weight. With a body like that, taking care of a baby must be hard.”
Everyone watched. She was waiting for a reaction. That wasn’t a gift—it was a setup. She wanted me emotional, unstable, and exposed in front of her son.
It happened at another family gathering a few weeks later. The house was loud, drinks everywhere. Susan stepped too close—and suddenly alcohol spilled all over my dress and chest. I knew right away it wasn’t an accident.
She reacted fast and loud before I could say anything.
“Lauren, that’s enough. You’ve had too much. You spilled it on yourself. But honestly, what do you expect—you’re just like your alcoholic parents.”
The smell was real. The stain was real. The room went quiet.
I looked at Mark. He looked at me with anger, believed his mother, and took her side. That was the moment I realized this wasn’t just humiliation. Susan finally got what she wanted—my husband accepting her version of me.
After that night, things changed quietly but fast. Empty alcohol bottles started showing up in our house. Mark was the one finding them. One in a cabinet. Another behind the washer. He didn’t yell. He just held them up, watching my reaction.
He made small comments. Asked if I forgot to throw something out. Said maybe I didn’t remember. I tried to figure out how they got there. It only happened on days we weren’t home.
Susan kept talking to him privately. She said she was worried. That she noticed “patterns.” That she was scared for the baby. Sometimes she added, “If I’m wrong, I’m sorry.” But after every one of those talks, another bottle appeared.
Mark never accused me outright, but his questions came more often. His tone changed. He started trusting repetition over reality. Other relatives acted differently too. No one said anything directly, but doubt had moved into our home—and Susan didn’t need to do anything openly anymore.
Eventually, I started doubting myself. So I checked the baby monitor recordings, just to see what was happening in our house when we weren’t there. Susan had a key. Mark gave it to her “for emergencies,” and I’d never thought twice about it.
On one video, I watched her walk into our house while we were gone and hide a bottle in a cabinet. Calm. Confident. Like she’d done it before. I replayed it again and again. The bottles weren’t appearing on their own.
She was bringing them.
I showed the video to Mark first. He watched it silently, rewound it, watched again. Then he said quietly,
“I’m sorry. I should’ve believed you. I never should’ve doubted you.”
Then I showed it to Susan. No yelling. I just hit play and put my phone on the table. She asked where I got it. I told her that didn’t matter.
I said it clearly: either she leaves us and our child alone, or the video goes straight to the police. It showed her entering our home while we were gone. That was illegal, and she knew exactly what that meant.
I didn’t beg or explain. I set a boundary. And for the first time, Susan realized she didn’t control me—or my husband—anymore.
After that, Susan disappeared. No calls. No texts. We changed the locks, and our home finally felt safe.
The fallout was simple: the talk about me being “unstable” stopped, the bottles never showed up again, and Mark cut off his mother’s access to our home. He stood by me—not with words, but with actions.
I still think about how close I came to losing my child and my marriage, all because someone couldn’t let go of control.
Question:
If someone you loved tried to take your child from you—could you ever forgive that?
