— Do you think she’ll ever be able to love me as her own daughter?” I asked Maxim, catching another chilling glance from his mother across the table.
“Give her time, Ira. She just cares about you,” Maxim said, lightly squeezing my hand under the table, but even that warmth couldn’t dispel the icy indifference emanating from Lyudmila Alekseevna.
I could never have imagined that a family dinner would turn into a silent test. Every movement I made, every word spoken, was analyzed with microscopic precision.
When I reached for the salad, my mother-in-law shot a quick glance at my wedding ring, as if checking to see if I’d removed it while Maxim was distracted.
Our marriage had lasted a year—a year of happiness with Maxim and a year of relentless battle with his mother. Lyudmila Alekseevna didn’t yell or throw tantrums—she was above such displays.
She acted elegantly: with innocent questions, cautious remarks, and barely perceptible glances.
“Irochka, how’s your work… as an accountant?” she asked, always pausing before the word “accountant” as if struggling to remember my profession. “At least not as a manicurist,” she added almost in a whisper, as if talking to herself.
Maxim was a kind and honest man. He always supported me:
“Mom, that’s enough. She’s my wife.”
Lyudmila Alekseevna merely offered a faint smile at the corners of her lips and took a sip of wine from her glass.
“You know, Maxim, your grandmother used to say—every family has its conflicts. But tell me,” she shifted her gaze to me, “how long are you staying here?”
In those moments, the air seemed to freeze. I felt Maxim’s hand on my knee grow heavier.
“Mom!”
“What ‘mom’? I’m just inquiring. I’m interested in your plans. The future. Children, after all.”
The topic of children arose suddenly, like an ambush. Maxim and I had been married only a year, and although we had discussed children, we’d decided not to rush.
One day I went to my mother-in-law’s to drop off some documents that Maxim had forgotten.
The door was ajar, and I heard her voice—she was talking on the phone:
“Yes, Valentina, I understand your concern. I have the same situation… No, he doesn’t listen.
He’s captivated by her…” she paused, then her voice turned colder. “She will give birth, but then it will turn out that the child isn’t his, and then he’ll find someone normal.”
I froze at the door, unable to move. Every word cut into me like a knife.
At that moment I realized the seriousness of what was happening: she not only disapproved of our marriage—she was convinced that I had “lured” Maxim. Perhaps she even believed that I would deceive him into accepting another man’s child.
I didn’t knock. I placed the documents on the hallway table and quietly left.
At home I sat for a long time in front of the mirror, scrutinizing my face. What was wrong with me? Why had this woman decided that I was unworthy of her son?
Maxim and I had met at a conference—I was handling the accounting for a participating company, and he was presenting his architectural project. An ordinary meeting. Ordinary love.
I wasn’t afraid. I was devoted. But I knew—people like her don’t just get angry. They seek revenge. Quietly, skillfully, patiently.
When Maxim returned home, I was calm. I didn’t tell him about the overheard conversation—I didn’t want to force him to choose between his mother and his wife.
But that evening I made a decision: whatever Lyudmila Alekseevna had planned, I would be one step ahead.
A month later I discovered I was pregnant. And that changed everything.
Maxim’s face lit up when we looked at the first ultrasound. A blurry image, a tiny dot—but for us, it was a whole world. His fingers trembled as he held the image, and tears welled in his eyes.
“I’m going to be a father,” he whispered, looking at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Ira, we’re going to be parents.”
The news of the pregnancy elicited an unexpected reaction from Lyudmila Alekseevna. She seemed transformed: becoming warmer, calling more frequently, offering help.
Now she regularly brought homemade food, vitamins, and books about child-rearing. However, every visit left me with a strange feeling.
“You must eat properly,” she said, arranging containers in the kitchen. “And visit a good specialist. Who have you scheduled?”
I named the doctor’s surname.
“Dr. Vasilieva?” she said thoughtfully. “And where do you plan to give birth?”
“At the Third City Hospital.”
She nodded, too focused for mere curiosity: “And when, approximately? Tell me exactly, so I can take time off to help you.”
With each visit, her questions grew more precise and detailed: which shift did the doctor work, who was on duty that day, on which floor the room would be. How could I possibly know such details? Oh well. One day, when my mother-in-law stepped away, I saw a message on her phone:
“Just swap the tags, and you can substitute him.”
My heart pounded somewhere in my throat. What did that mean? Swap tags? Substitute? The poison of those words spread through my veins, paralyzing me. I leaned against the wall, feeling as if the floor was disappearing beneath me.
That night I didn’t sleep. At dawn, I found myself with my laptop on my lap—I was studying forums of young mothers, cases of child substitution, stories of exposures.
Statistics, legal intricacies, courtroom evidence—I searched for answers to questions that were tearing me apart.
Could she really do something like this? Was she so obsessed with the idea that I was “unworthy” of her son that she would commit a crime? I couldn’t believe it, but I also couldn’t ignore what I had heard.
Maxim noticed I had become distracted, but he attributed it to the pregnancy. I didn’t dare tell him—I didn’t want him to think I was paranoid. Or worse—so he wouldn’t take his mother’s side, insisting that I had misunderstood everything.
In the seventh month, Lyudmila Alekseevna brought a box with baby items and a crib: “Look, what a beautiful crib! And this is a night light, very convenient. You can put it in the room when you give birth.”
The night light looked unusual—styled like a child’s toy, with a soft glow. I thanked her, but something inside me clicked. That was the moment I made up my mind. The next day I purchased a tiny hidden camera—the size of a button, with wireless data transmission to a secure cloud server.
I carefully built it into the night light gifted by my mother-in-law. Testing showed that its field of view captured almost the entire room.
It was my insurance. My safeguard against madness if I was wrong, and against a monstrous crime if I was right.
“Everything will be fine, my love,” I said to Maxim as he kissed my belly before sleep. “I’ll take care of our baby.”
And I was truly ready to protect my child at any cost—even if the price was the destruction of his father’s family. The struggle began early in the morning. I awoke from sharp pain and nudged Maxim: “It seems it’s time.”
The labor was difficult. Sixteen hours on the brink between unbearable pain and complete exhaustion. Maxim held my hand, whispered words of support, and I thought only of one thing—soon our baby would be with us. When the first cry resounded, the world around me froze. A tiny creature with a red face and clenched fists—a boy.
Our son. They placed him on my chest, and I memorized every detail: the mole beneath his left ear, the unique shape of his upper lip, the golden fuzz on his crown.
“He is magnificent,” Maxim whispered, his voice trembling.
I fell asleep, exhausted from labor but calm—the camera was working, the night light stood on the bedside table next to the baby’s crib. I woke to the nurse’s voice: “Time to feed the baby.”
She handed me a bundle. I unfolded the blanket and froze. Something was wrong. The mole beneath the ear was gone. The shape of the lips was different. “This isn’t my baby,” the words escaped involuntarily.
The nurse looked at me with sympathy: “You seem tired. It’s natural after giving birth…”
“No,” I tried to speak calmly. “I need a doctor. And my phone. Now.”
Once I was alone, I took out my phone and opened the camera app. I rewound the recording several hours back. And I saw it. Lyudmila Alekseevna entering the room with a large bag. She looked around.
She quickly approached the crib, took a bundle from the bag—another baby. Swapped the tags on the legs of the children.
She carefully took my baby and hid him.
I gasped. There was no more doubt. In the video, every movement of Lyudmila Alekseevna was clear, her face—unmistakable. The evidence of the crime, recorded in high quality.
I pressed the nurse call button. When she entered, I already had my phone in hand: “I need to report a serious offense. And call the authorities.”
The following hours passed like a blur. The arrival of the police. Filing a report. Reviewing the video. Searching for my baby. A call to Maxim. He rushed to the hospital, pale, with eyes full of horror: “What’s happening? They told me…”
I silently handed him the phone with the video. He watched without taking his eyes off it, and then simply collapsed on his knees beside my bed: “No. No. My mother would never…”—but the recording spoke for itself.
By evening, the authorities found my son. Lyudmila Alekseevna had taken him to her sister’s house in the suburbs, explaining that the daughter-in-law had abandoned the newborn. The baby was completely safe. When they returned my son to me, I held him close, inhaling his scent, feeling his warmth. It was him—that same golden fuzz, that same mole beneath the ear, those very facial features.
Another baby was also returned to its mother.
The trial took place three months later. The video evidence became irrefutable. Lyudmila Alekseevna received five years for kidnapping, falsification, and conspiracy.
Maxim did not miss a single session. He looked at his mother through the courtroom, his face remaining impassive. When the judge read the verdict, he tightly held my hand. At the final session, when all evidence had been presented and the decision was practically obvious, Lyudmila Alekseevna unexpectedly requested to speak.
The hall fell silent. She stood upright, maintaining what little dignity remained, but her voice trembled with barely concealed anger.
“I wanted to protect my son,” her gaze burned through me. “In two weeks I would have insisted on a genetic test, and it would have shown that the child is not Maxim’s.”
Because it would have been another man’s child—the one I had substituted. I was sure that she was deceiving my boy,” she nodded toward me. “People like her always seek gain.
I thought I could open his eyes with real evidence. Free him from this marriage,” her voice faltered on the final words. The test would have revealed the truth—that the child was not his, and he would finally see clearly.
The lawyer jumped up, straightened his shoulders: “Your honor, my client acted out of maternal love. Twisted, perhaps, but love. She truly believed that she was saving her son.”
The judge fixed his gaze over his glasses: “Maternal love does not kidnap babies, Mr. Lawyer. And I have not encountered a more insane method to force a man to leave his wife. Your client must also be examined for serious mental illness.”
The hall grew so quiet that I could hear my own heart pounding. Everyone understood: this was not about caring for a family. It was a desire to own a son, to control his life. A painful obsession, disguised in beautiful words. After the trial, we moved to another city. We started anew—a new home, a new job, a new life.
Maxim couldn’t speak about what had happened for a long time, but one evening, when our son was already asleep in his crib, he embraced me and whispered: “Thank you for saving our son. And me.”
I stand by the window, holding the baby in my arms. Maxim approaches from behind and embraces us both. He doesn’t speak—he just kisses my hands.
We both know: a true family isn’t defined by blood or name. It is love and truth. And our truth is stronger than any lie.”
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