“Why wasn’t I invited?”—my mother-in-law was upset, and I found myself torn between guilt and frustration.
Recently, my husband and I visited the countryside for my aunt’s birthday—a cozy gathering with barbecue and family chatter, just like always. We returned in high spirits, but the next day, a phone call made my heart sink.
“Why didn’t you invite me?” she asked, her voice full of hurt.
This wasn’t the first time. She expects an invitation to every family event of mine, obsessing over where we went, who was there, and why her presence was overlooked. As if she has any right to be involved.
“We’re family!” she would chide. “If you and my son were invited, you could’ve asked me too.”
I’ve grown weary of excuses. Hiding our outings is futile—she’s too plugged in, scrolling through social media, stalking relatives’ profiles, scrutinizing every photo and story. No one dares refuse her a follow—it would be rude—so she always knows. And if she spots us somewhere without her, the theatrics begin.
We’ve been married four years, living in a flat my relatives gifted me—small but ours. We’re saving for something bigger. My family is large—three sisters, countless cousins—all close-knit and constantly in touch. We meet often, whether at someone’s cottage, in the city, or at a pub. My husband gets on well with my brother—fishing trips, holidays, they’re thick as thieves. He was welcomed warmly into my family.
But his side? The opposite. No father, no grandparents. Just his mother—and, frankly, not the most pleasant woman. When she visits, she sits in silence, face twisted as if everything disgusts her. The music, the children’s laughter, even ordinary conversation irritates her. I’m left playing tour guide, explaining who’s who, only to watch her wrinkle her nose in disdain. *“Why is she wearing that dress?”* *“That man is far too loud.”*
She never says it to their faces, but later, she’ll unload every complaint onto me.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” a friend asked when I confided in her.
“Immensely,” I admitted. “But what can I do? She’s his mother. She tries not to be outright rude, but her whole demeanour screams, *‘I don’t belong here, and I don’t like any of you.’*”
My family noticed long ago. That’s why she’s rarely invited—not to slight her, but because she pushes people away. Yet she doesn’t see it. The moment she hears of another gathering, the interrogation starts:
“What are your plans this weekend? Oh, your sister’s birthday? Where’s the party? At a restaurant or at home? Right. You’ll all be celebrating while I sit alone…”
And again, I feel guilty, as though I owe it to her to drag her along. Even though no one asked for her, and no one wants the tension she brings. Once, she even showed up at our flat while we were visiting relatives, then called in outrage—why had we left her behind? She had *no one* to talk to!
I tried telling my husband about the absurdity of it, how she crosses lines. He just shrugged.
“You know how she is—she’s lonely. It’s hard for her.”
But that doesn’t excuse intruding on our lives. Why can’t she make friends, find a hobby, *do* something? Instead, she just milks pity—it’s always the same tune: *no friends, even the neighbours avoid her.*
One memory still makes me shudder. Just after our wedding, my sister was heavily pregnant. At a family dinner, my mother-in-law launched into horror stories—botched deliveries, stillbirths, the worst of labour. My sister left in tears. I was stunned—why would she say such things? She *knew* how fragile my sister was. But other people’s feelings mean nothing to her.
Now she’s fishing for New Year’s plans, demanding to know where my family will gather. I don’t even want to answer. Because I know what’s coming—the hurt, the accusations, the guilt trips.
Sometimes I want to snap, *“You don’t get to be part of everything in my life. If you don’t want to feel left out, stop making others feel guilty for leaving you behind.”* But I hold my tongue. For my husband. For peace.
Though if I’m honest… how much longer can I keep this up?
