After giving birth, my mother-in-law surrounded me with such care that I couldn’t hold back my tears—while my own mother hadn’t even called.
There’s a saying: “Out of sight, out of mind.” Lately, I’ve been thinking about it more and more after every conversation with my mother. It’s as if she’s forgotten she has not only a son but a daughter too. How else could I explain her indifference?
After finishing school, I left my hometown because I saw no future there. I wanted to break free, to achieve something in the city. I went to university, got a degree, built my life. That’s where I met my husband, where we married, and later had a child. And if it hadn’t been for my in-laws, life would have been unbearably hard.
They helped us with the deposit for our mortgage. We even lived with them for two years to save up for our own place. It wasn’t easy, but we managed. My mother-in-law became someone I could rely on—she taught me so much, always had my back. Still, I longed for my own space. Not because I didn’t love them, but because I wanted my family to have a home.
But my own mother? She was barely present in my life. The rare phone calls were never about me—just complaints about her own struggles or endless stories about my brother. She never once asked how I was doing. Yet I knew every grade he got, every pair of jeans he wore, how much taller he’d grown over the summer. This was normal even back in university. She never cared about my exams but bragged endlessly about his football achievements.
I learned to live with it. But when we finally bought our flat and signed the mortgage, I called her—excited to share the news. And what did she say? She barely listened. Something far more important was happening—her son was getting married!
“Can you believe it? Such a lovely girl—you remember Aunt Irene’s daughter? The wedding’s in a month! So much to organise!”
She prattled on about venues, dresses, guest lists… I remembered how, before my own wedding, she’d called it a waste of money. In the end, she didn’t even come, claiming she was ill. I still think she simply couldn’t be bothered.
My brother was 19, his bride just 18. Where did they get the money for a wedding? Turns out, my mother and his in-laws chipped in. Yet when my husband and I got married, all she said was, “Come if you can.” We didn’t. We were busy with work—and honestly, we didn’t want to. My brother and I had never been close, but that day, I resented my mother most of all.
Six months passed. She called again—not to ask how we were, but to announce they’d bought my brother and his wife a flat near hers.
“Why take out a loan? We sold Grandmother’s flat, his in-laws helped—we managed it!”
Grandmother’s flat. She always said she’d keep it, rent it out for retirement. When I was struggling in a tiny rented place with my baby and husband, it never crossed her mind to offer it to us. Not a penny came our way. But for him? Gifts, care, support.
The worst blow came when I got pregnant. I was terrified. I needed my mother—just for a little while, just at the start. I even offered to pay for her train fare, just so she’d come. But she refused. Said my niece (my brother’s daughter) had a cold, and she needed to stay with her. As if his wife didn’t have her own mother. But that didn’t matter.
My mother-in-law understood immediately. She came to the hospital, held me while I packed, got the house ready. After the birth, she was there every moment—cooking, cleaning, taking the baby for walks. I lay there, crying—not from pain, but from sheer gratitude. And my mother? She replied to my text announcing her granddaughter’s birth with one word: “Congratulations.” That was it. No call. No questions about how I was, how the baby was, how the birth had gone.
Two weeks passed—not a word. Then she finally rang, but only to boast about how her “little one was nearly walking” (my niece, my brother’s child). I listened in silence, then hung up. I haven’t called since. Neither has she.
Maybe it’s better this way. I’m tired of feeling unwanted. Clearly, she thinks she has only one child—one grandchild. Fine. Let her. But the heart doesn’t mend any quicker for knowing it.
