*Diary Entry – 12th October*
“Why wasn’t I invited?”—my mother-in-law’s voice dripped with hurt, and once again, I was caught between guilt and irritation.
Just last weekend, my husband and I drove down to the countryside for my aunt’s birthday. A proper English gathering—roast dinner, good wine, laughter, the usual family banter. We came home in high spirits, only for the next morning to bring a phone call that made my stomach tighten.
“And why wasn’t I asked along?” she demanded, that familiar wounded tone creeping in.
This wasn’t the first time. She insists on an invitation to every single event tied to my side of the family. Who was there? What did we do? Why was she left out? As if she’s somehow entitled to be part of it all.
“We’re family!” she protests, reproach heavy in her words. “If you and Edward were invited, I should’ve been too.”
I’m tired of excuses. Hiding outings is pointless—she’s sharp as a tack, glued to Facebook, tracking every cousin’s post, every tagged photo. Nobody dares unfollow her—too awkward—so she sees it all. The moment she spots a gathering she wasn’t at, the drama begins.
Edward and I have been married four years, living in a flat my relatives helped me buy. A small one-bed, but ours. We’re saving for something bigger. My family’s large—three sisters, a dozen cousins, all close. We meet often—somebody’s garden, a pub, the occasional London restaurant. Edward gets on brilliantly with them, especially my brother Will. Fishing trips, holidays, Christmases—he’s one of us.
His family? Nothing like it. No father, no grandparents. Just his mother, and truthfully, she’s hard work. When she visits, she sits in stony silence, face pinched like she’s surrounded by foul smells. The music’s too loud, the kids too boisterous, the conversations beneath her. Every time, I end up explaining who’s who, only for her to whisper later: “That one’s dress—tacky,” or “Must that man laugh like a hyena?”
Never to their faces, of course. But she’ll unload every petty grievance onto me afterward.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” my friend Emily asked when I confided in her.
“Terribly,” I admitted. “But what can I do? She’s his mother. She tries not to be outright rude, but her whole manner screams, *I don’t belong here, and I don’t like any of you.*”
My family noticed long ago. That’s why they hardly invite her. Not to be cruel—she pushes them away. But she doesn’t see it. The second she catches wind of a celebration, the interrogation starts:
“Plans this weekend? Oh, your sister’s birthday? Pub or at home? Right. So you’ll all be having a lovely time while I sit alone…”
And there it is—the guilt. As if I’m obliged to drag her along, even though nobody asked her, and nobody wants the tension she brings. Once, she even turned up at our flat while we were at my parents’, then rang in a huff—“Why wasn’t I included?” Who exactly was she expecting to entertain her?
I’ve told Edward this isn’t normal. That his mother oversteps. He just sighs.
“You know how it is—she’s lonely.”
But that doesn’t give her the right to intrude. Find a hobby, join a book club, *something*. Instead, she plays the martyr—“No friends, even the neighbours avoid me.”
The worst was early in our marriage. My sister Charlotte was heavily pregnant, and over Sunday lunch, my mother-in-law launched into horror stories—labour disasters, stillbirths, NHS negligence. Charlotte fled in tears. I was livid—why say such things? She *knew* how anxious Charlotte was. But other people’s feelings don’t register with her.
Now she’s prodding about New Year’s plans—where’s my family celebrating? I don’t even want to answer. It’ll be the same cycle: hurt, accusations, guilt trips.
Sometimes I want to snap: *You don’t get to claim every part of my life. If you hate feeling left out, stop making everyone else feel guilty for leaving you out.* But I bite my tongue. For Edward. For peace.
Though if I’m honest… how much longer can I keep doing this?
*Lesson learned: Politeness shouldn’t mean surrendering your own peace. One day, the dam will break—best to fix the cracks before it does.*
