I let my mom stay with us after her hip surgery, thinking it’d be temporary. Weeks turned into months, and she started “helping” with our baby—changing routines, criticizing everything I did. One morning I woke up groggy and found the crib empty. My mom sat there smiling and said, “She slept so well after I gave her…”
“…just a little bit of chamomile tea,” she finished, like it was no big deal.
I blinked hard. “Wait. What?”
She nodded, already back to cooing at the baby, who sat bouncing in her lap. “Just a bit! Helps with digestion. My mother gave it to me when I was her age. All natural.”
My heart skipped. I stood there in the doorway, still in my old T-shirt, hair matted to my head, and felt this cold drop of fear creep in. “Mom, she’s six months old. You can’t just—give her things. You didn’t even ask.”
She waved me off like I was being hysterical. “Don’t be dramatic. You millennials think you
