A few days before I went into labor, I was stretched out on the couch, trying to breathe through the dull ache in my lower back that had been building all morning.
My golden retriever, Buddy, lay beside me with his head resting gently on my lap, his big brown eyes fixed on me like he knew something was about to happen. I scratched behind his ears, grateful for his calm presence.
“Mark!” I called to my husband, my voice strained as another wave of discomfort rolled through me.
From the kitchen, I heard the clink of a plate. Mark was making himself a sandwich, layering turkey and cheese with the same relaxed focus he had for everything in life.
“Yeah, sweetheart?” he replied without looking up.
I sighed. “We need to figure out what we’re going to do with Buddy while we’re at the hospital. Can we ask your mom to help?”
My due date had come and gone a week earlier, and my doctor had scheduled an induction for the next day. I was beyond ready to be done with pregnancy. My ankles were swollen, I couldn’t get comfortable in any position, and every movement felt like it might split me in half.
Mark wandered over, sandwich in hand, and bent to kiss my forehead. “Don’t stress, Julia. Mom loves Buddy. She’ll handle it.”
That was Mark for you — breezy, optimistic, always convinced the simplest answer was the right one. It was one of the reasons I fell in love with him… and one of the reasons I occasionally wanted to throw a pillow at his head.
“Alright,” I said, sinking deeper into the cushions. “Just make sure she knows it’ll only be for a couple of days.”
That evening, Mark called his mother, Patricia, and explained the situation. She agreed without hesitation. He hung up with a satisfied grin.
“She said she’s happy to help. Problem solved,” he announced, like he’d just negotiated world peace.
I decided to let that be enough.
We packed our hospital bag that night, and in the morning, we kissed Buddy goodbye. I knelt by the door, scratching his head.
“Be a good boy for Grandma, okay?” I told him. He wagged his tail like he understood.
Patricia smiled warmly. “Don’t worry about a thing. I just wish I could be at the hospital with you.”
That was one of our ongoing points of tension. We’d told both families we didn’t want visitors at the hospital. My pregnancy had been rough enough, and I needed the delivery room to be calm and quiet — just me and Mark.
Patricia had said she understood, but I suspected there was still some resentment there.
“Mom, you know what we decided,” Mark reminded her gently.
She laughed and waved him off. “Yes, yes, I know. You modern kids with all your boundaries. Now go have my grandchild.”
“Thanks, Patricia,” I said, and we headed out.
We never made it to the induction. My water broke just as we pulled into the hospital parking lot.
And let me just say this — we women need to be more honest with each other about labor. I’d heard stories, sure, but nothing prepared me for the hours of blinding contractions, the poking and prodding, or the primal feeling that my body had been taken over by a force of nature.
Mark stayed by my side the whole time, holding my hand, wiping my forehead, and occasionally looking like he might faint.
But when they finally placed my son in my arms, every bit of pain vanished from my mind. He was tiny, wrinkly, and perfect. Mark and I cried like fools, staring at him in disbelief. We’d made this little person.
The next three days in the hospital were a bubble of joy. It was just us, the baby, and the surreal bliss of new parenthood.
When we were discharged, I was eager to get home — to introduce Buddy to his new little brother and to settle into our life as a family of four.
On the drive, Mark called Patricia to let her know we were coming home. She said she’d give us a few days before visiting the baby. I thought that was incredibly thoughtful of her.
We pulled into the driveway, carried the baby inside, and stepped into the kitchen. That’s when I saw it — a folded piece of paper sitting neatly on the table.
I smiled. Patricia must have left us a welcome-home note. With the baby cradled in my arms, I opened it, expecting something like “Congratulations! I’m so proud of you.”
Instead, the note read:
“You owe me $600 for feeding and walking Buddy. My time costs money. You have my bank details.”
I blinked at the paper, sure I’d misread it. But no — there it was, in her neat cursive. Patricia was charging us for taking care of our dog while I was in labor.
“Mark,” I called, my voice tight.
He came in from the living room, where he’d been setting down the car seat.
“You might want to read this,” I said, handing him the note.
He scanned it, groaned, and ran a hand through his hair. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Dead serious,” I said. “Your mother is invoicing us for watching Buddy while I was pushing your child into the world.”
He shook his head. “I’ll call her.”
“No,” I said quickly. “I’ll handle it.”
An idea was already forming in my mind.
A week later, Patricia came over to meet the baby. She walked in beaming, kissed Mark on the cheek, and immediately scooped her grandson into her arms.
“Oh, Julia, he’s precious,” she gushed. “He has Mark’s nose.”
For a few minutes, she was the picture of a doting grandmother. Then she handed the baby back to me and cleared her throat.
“So,” she said casually, “when can I expect that $600? I’ve been patient.”
I kept my smile. “Of course, Patricia. I’m happy to pay you — on one condition.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Condition? What condition?”
I set the baby in his bassinet and walked over to the desk in the corner. From it, I pulled a thick folder I’d prepared earlier.
Over the past few days, I’d combed through every instance in which Mark and I had done something for her — every favor, every expense, every time we’d gone out of our way. I’d itemized it all, just like she had with the dog-sitting.
I slid the folder across the table toward her.
“What’s this?” she asked warily.
“An invoice,” I said lightly. “If we’re charging family for favors, I thought it was only fair I do the same.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line as she opened the folder and scanned the list.
“Let’s see,” I said, leaning over. “Helping you move last year — eight hundred dollars. That’s a family discount, by the way. Paying for your transmission repair — twelve hundred. And the time I babysat your neighbor’s kids because you asked me to? Six hundred.”
Patricia’s mouth fell open. “This is ridiculous! You can’t charge me for things family does for each other!”
I raised my eyebrows. “Exactly. Family helps each other without expecting payment. At least, that’s what I thought.”
She sputtered. “But this is different! I had to rearrange my schedule to take care of Buddy!”
“And I had to rearrange my entire life to give birth to your grandchild,” I replied evenly. “So if we’re talking about fair compensation, I’d say we’re more than even.”
Her face flushed red. She stared at me for a long moment, then turned sharply and stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to make the baby fuss.
Mark came in from the kitchen, chuckling as he wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Remind me never to get on your bad side,” he murmured.
I grinned. “Good plan.”
I settled onto the couch with the baby, and Buddy trotted over, resting his head on my knee. I scratched his ears and looked down at the little bundle in my arms.
Patricia might not have learned her lesson, but one thing was certain — I wasn’t paying her a dime for watching Buddy. And if she ever brought it up again, well… I still had the folder.
Let her try me.
