I’m 37 weeks pregnant, exhausted, and one week away from a planned C-section.
I thought my husband’s parents came to help.
Instead, I’m cooking, cleaning, and apologizing for the weather.
They hate the cold. I warned them before they came — it’s autumn, we’re heading into winter. Our house is set to 20°C, which already feels too hot for me. My body’s a furnace, I walk around in summer clothes. But apparently, that’s “too cold to breathe.”
She complains five times a day.
And last night, while I finally rested for once, she complained to my husband instead.
When he came home, the first thing he did was turn the heat up.
I told him I’d get too hot.
He said, “What else am I supposed to do?”
By midnight, I was drenched — sweating through my pajamas, my sheets, my patience.
But the temperature isn’t even the worst part.
I told him no visitors until our baby’s vaccinated — especially with the complications.
He argued. Said we could “just exclude sick people.”
I told him the midwives said no warmer than 20°C for the baby.
He said, “Kids in the tropics survive just fine.”
Then his mom casually dropped that she’d be doing some old family tradition on the 28th day.
He used to say he didn’t believe in that stuff.
Now? He just shrugged.
“If it makes her happy, what’s the harm?”
The harm is that every boundary I set becomes a debate.
Every concern turns into a compromise — but only on my side.
When I told him I don’t feel like he’s on my team, he said I just need to “adjust until they adjust.”
But I’m the one bleeding patience.
I’m the one carrying this baby, fighting exhaustion, fear, and now, a war over the thermostat.
I don’t hate his parents. They’re kind. They flew halfway across the world to help.
But somewhere between keeping peace and keeping me sane, he forgot whose team he’s on.
I’m not asking him to choose between his parents and me.
I’m asking him to choose us — his wife, his baby, his future.
And maybe, just maybe, to turn the damn heater off.
