I forbade my mother-in-law from seeing the kids after the last argument. A month passed, and one day my son said, “Mom, Grandma came again.” I turned on the cameras and froze at what I saw…

I forbade my mother-in-law from seeing the kids after that last argument. She crossed all boundaries—started criticizing my parenting in front of the kids, saying I was a bad mother, that I spoilt them, that they were growing up spoiled. The kids heard. My youngest even started crying.

Then I firmly said: enough is enough. Until you apologize and learn to respect my boundaries, you stay away from the kids. She left, slamming the door. My husband tried to defend his mother, but I stood my ground. The kids are my responsibility, and I won’t let anyone harm them, not even their grandmother.

A month passed. Silence. My mother-in-law didn’t call or write. I thought she was upset and waiting for me to give in first. But I wasn’t going to.

One evening, my son, who is eight, said over dinner, “Mom, Grandma came again today.”

I froze with a fork in my hand. I asked again, “What?”

He nodded calmly: “Yeah. She comes almost every day while you’re at work. Helps with homework, plays with us. She says it’s our little secret.”

Blood rushed to my face. I looked at the nanny sitting nearby. She went pale and looked away. Everything became clear.

That evening, after the kids went to bed, I turned on the recordings from the security cameras I had installed for safety. I fast-forwarded to the daytime when I wasn’t home.

And I saw it.

My mother-in-law rings the doorbell. The nanny opens it; they talk quietly. Then the nanny lets her in. The kids happily run to their grandmother, hug her. She sits with them at the table, checks their notebooks, explains tasks. Laughs, strokes their heads, kisses them.

I fast-forwarded to another day. The same thing. And another day. And another. Almost every weekday while I’m at work, my mother-in-law came to my children. Spent two to three hours with them. Then left before I returned, as if she hadn’t been there.

I called the nanny. Asked directly, “How much did she pay you?”

The nanny lowered her eyes. Admitted quietly, “Three hundred euros a month. For silence.”

Three hundred euros. The price of her access to my kids behind my back.

I asked, “Why did you agree?”

The nanny shrugged: “She was so miserable. Cried when she asked. Said they were her grandchildren, that you were punishing her. Promised she wouldn’t do anything bad, just wanted to see the kids. And the money… I needed it.”

I fired her that very night.

In the morning, I called my mother-in-law. My voice trembling with anger, “Did you bribe the nanny? Sneak into my house when I wasn’t home? Made the kids keep secrets from their mother?”

She was silent for a few seconds. Then quietly said, “I couldn’t live without them. Do you understand? Physically couldn’t. They are my grandchildren. For a month I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat properly, just sat and cried. Then I decided—even if secretly, I would see them.”

I didn’t know what to say. A storm raged inside. On one hand—she broke my rule, bribed the nanny, deceived me for a whole month. Taught the kids to lie. On the other hand—I heard such despair in her voice that my heart ached.

I coldly asked: “And what did you tell them? What stories did you make up about me?”

She answered wearily, “Nothing. I just wanted to be near. Helped with homework, played, fed them. Didn’t say a bad word about you. Check with the kids.”

I checked. Gently asked my son, “Did Grandma say anything about me?”

He shrugged, “No. She just asked how you were, if you were tired. And said we should listen to you because you love us very much.”

That broke me.

I sat and thought for a long time. What she did was wrong. She broke my boundaries, bribed a person I trusted with my children. Created a situation where the kids had to keep secrets from their mother. This is unacceptable.

But she didn’t poison them against me. Didn’t manipulate them. Just wanted to be a grandmother.

A few days later, I called her again. I said, “Come over. Let’s talk.”

She came. We sat at the table, and I saw she had aged over the month. Looked haggard, eyes red, hands trembling.

I said sternly, “What you did was wrong. Bribed the nanny, deceived me, taught the kids to lie. This is unacceptable.”

She nodded, without justifying herself.

I continued, “But I see you weren’t trying to turn them against me. And the kids love you. So, let’s make a deal. You come two times a week, on my schedule. When I’m around. No secrets, no roundabout ways. If you break this again—there will be no more chances.”

She cried. Nodded, thanked, promised. We set the rules—no criticism of my parenting, no gifts without agreement, respect for my decisions.

Six months passed. She comes according to the schedule, behaves respectfully. The relationship is strained, trust undermined. But the kids are happy to see their grandma, and she is happy to see them.

Sometimes I wonder: did I do the right thing by giving her a second chance? Or should I have cut off communication forever after such a betrayal? Can you forgive someone who broke all boundaries but did it out of love, not malice? What would you have done in my place?

***

After yet another argument, I forbade my mother-in-law from seeing the children. That evening she crossed every line — criticized my parenting in front of the kids, said I was a bad mother, and threw many hurtful remarks my way. The children heard everything. My youngest even started crying. A month of silence followed — no calls, no apologies, nothing. I thought she had finally understood and stepped back. But one day my son casually said, “Mom, Grandma came again when you were at work.” My heart dropped. That evening I opened the security camera footage… and froze at what I saw.
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