“Why wasn’t I invited?” — my mother-in-law takes offense, and I’m torn between guilt and frustration.
Recently, my husband and I drove out to the countryside for my aunt’s birthday—great food, good company, and the usual family chatter. We came back in high spirits, only to get a call the next day that made my stomach drop.
“And why wasn’t I invited?” she asked, her voice dripping with hurt.
This wasn’t the first time. She expects an invite to every single gathering involving my family—where we went, who was there, and why she wasn’t included. Honestly, what’s it to her?
“We’re family!” she scolds. “If you and my son were invited, surely I could’ve been too.”
I’m tired of making excuses. Hiding outings is pointless—she’s tech-savvy, scrolling through social media, keeping tabs on every relative’s posts and stories. No one wants to block her, so she sees everything. The moment she spots a gathering she wasn’t at, the drama begins.
We’ve been married four years, living in a flat my relatives gifted us. It’s small, but it’s ours. We’re saving up for something bigger. My family’s large—three sisters, plenty of cousins—all close-knit. We meet often, whether at someone’s cottage, in town, or a pub. My husband gets on well with my brother—fishing trips, holidays, the lot. They welcomed him warmly.
His side? The opposite. No father, no grandparents—just his mother. And if I’m honest, she’s not the easiest woman. When she visits, she sits in silence, face like she’s enduring something foul. Music annoys her, kids laughing, general chatter. I end up playing tour guide, explaining who’s who, while she wrinkles her nose in disdain. “What’s she wearing that dress for?” “That man’s too loud.”
She won’t say it to their faces, but she’ll unload it all on me later.
“Doesn’t that bother you?” a friend asked when I vented.
“Immensely,” I admitted. “But what can I do? She’s his mum. She tries not to be outright rude, but her whole attitude 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. She doesn’t see it. The minute she catches wind of a celebration, the interrogation starts:
“What are you doing this weekend? Oh, your sister’s birthday? Where’s the party? At a restaurant or home? Right. You’ll all be having fun while I’m alone…”
And there’s that guilt again, like I owe it to her to drag her along. Even though no one asked, and no one wants the awkwardness. Once, she even showed up at our place while we were at a family do. Later she rang, fuming—”Why didn’t you take me?” Who was she even going to talk to?
I’ve told my husband this isn’t normal. That his mum oversteps. He just shrugs.
“You know how it is—she’s on her own. It’s hard for her.”
That’s no excuse to invade our lives. She could make friends, pick up hobbies, do something. Instead, she leans on pity. “No one likes me,” “Even the neighbours avoid me.”
One moment still makes me shudder. Early in our marriage, my sister was heavily pregnant. At a family meal, my mother-in-law launched into horror stories—births gone wrong, infant deaths, labour nightmares. My sister left in tears. Why say that? She knew the situation. But others’ feelings don’t matter to her.
Now she’s probing about New Year’s—where we’ll be, who’s coming. I don’t even want to answer. It’ll be the same cycle: hurt, blame, 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.” But I bite my tongue. For my husband. For peace.
Though honestly… how much longer can I keep doing this?
