My Mother-in-Law Demanded $600 for Watching Our Dog While I Was in Labor — I Agreed, but Only on One Condition –

A few days before I went into labor, I was lying on the sofa, breathing through the dull ache that had been building in my lower back all morning. My golden retriever, Buddy, rested his head gently on my lap, watching me with those soulful brown eyes that always seemed to understand more than words could say.

As I stroked his soft fur, I found comfort in his quiet presence.

“It’s happening,” I called out to my husband, Mark, trying to keep my voice steady as another wave of pain rolled through me.

From the kitchen, I heard the familiar sound of dishes clinking. Mark was calmly making himself a sandwich, his usual go-with-the-flow attitude on full display even in this life-changing moment.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he replied casually.

I sighed. “We need to figure out what to do with Buddy while I’m in the hospital. Can we ask your mom to help?”

My doctor had already scheduled an induction for the next morning—just one day before my due date. I was swollen, exhausted, and ready to finally hold my baby in my arms.

Mark kissed my forehead. “Don’t worry, Julia. Mom loves Buddy. She’ll take care of him.”

That was Mark—optimistic, calm, and sometimes infuriatingly confident that everything would just work out.

That afternoon, he called his mother, Patricia, who immediately agreed to dog-sit. “Problem solved,” he said proudly, like he’d just fixed world peace.

That night, we packed our hospital bag. The next morning, as we said goodbye to Buddy, I knelt down and whispered, “Be a good boy for Grandma, okay?” His tail wagged in response.

Patricia smiled warmly. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’d love to come to the hospital, too.”

There it was again—that subtle tension. Mark and I had made it clear we wanted no visitors during labor or recovery. It wasn’t personal; I simply wanted a peaceful birth experience with just my husband and me.

“Mom,” Mark reminded gently, “we talked about this.”

She laughed it off. “Sure, sure. You young people and your rules.”

When my water broke in the hospital parking lot, all plans for a calm induction vanished. Labor pain was far more intense and raw than I’d ever imagined. Mark stayed by my side, pale but determined, as I worked through each contraction.

And then—it happened. The moment they placed our baby in my arms, the world fell silent. All the pain disappeared. He was perfect.

Those first few days in the hospital were pure bliss—just the three of us, wrapped in new-parent exhaustion and love.

When it was finally time to go home, I couldn’t wait to reunite with Buddy and start our new life together.

But when we walked into the kitchen, something unexpected waited on the table—a neatly folded note in Patricia’s familiar handwriting. Smiling, I thought she’d left a sweet “welcome home” message.

Instead, the note read:
“You owe me $600 for walking and feeding Buddy. I have to charge for my time. You have my banking info.”

At first, I thought I’d misread it. But no—it was clear as day.

“Mark!” I called, stunned. “You need to see this.”

He read the note, groaned, and rubbed his forehead. “Unbelievable.”

“I’ll handle it,” I said quietly, a plan already forming in my mind.

A week later, Patricia came over to meet her grandson. She cooed over the baby, her smile genuine—until she set him down and cleared her throat.

“So,” she said lightly, “when can I expect that $600?”

I smiled politely. “Of course, Patricia. I’ll pay you—as soon as you agree to my condition.”

She frowned. “What condition?”

I handed her a folder I’d been preparing all week. Inside, I’d itemized every favor Mark and I had done for her over the past few years—car repairs, errands, babysitting, and financial help.

Her smile faltered. “What’s this?”

“An invoice,” I said evenly. “If we’re charging family for helping each other, it’s only fair I do the same.”

Her eyes widened as she flipped through the pages.

“Helping with your car transmission—$800. Covering the repair bill—$1,200. Babysitting your neighbor’s kids—$600.”

“This is ridiculous!” she snapped. “Family doesn’t charge each other!”

I met her gaze. “Exactly. That’s what I thought, too.”

She huffed, muttered something under her breath, and stormed out, slamming the door so hard it made the baby cry.

Mark came in, half laughing, half shocked. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

I smiled. “Good advice.”

As I sat on the sofa, Buddy came over and rested his head on my knee. I stroked his fur, my newborn cradled in my other arm.

In that moment, surrounded by love and peace, I realized something: family should be built on kindness, understanding, and respect—not invoices. And if Patricia ever brought up that $600 again, well… I had my own paperwork ready.