“Do you call your mother-in-law ‘Mum’? Are you absolutely sure who your real mother is?”
Every time I hear someone address their mother-in-law or wife’s mother as “Mummy,” my skin crawls. Not because I’m cruel or envious. Because to me, that word is sacred. It isn’t something you toss around carelessly. A mother isn’t just a woman who became family through a marriage certificate. A mother is the one who raised you, who stayed awake through sleepless nights, who wept from exhaustion but still got up the next morning and fought for you.
I have a close friend—Emily. We’ve known each other since childhood; she was my bridesmaid, and I’ve been hers… three times over. We’ve weathered life together, and despite children, moves, and everything else, we’ve held on tight. I often joke, “Well, Em, shall we wait till the kids are at university, then hit the pub once we retire?”
The other day, I dropped by hers as a favor—bringing medicine from the chemist since her car was in the shop. Handing her the bag, she nodded and said, “This isn’t for me. It’s for Mum—she’s feeling poorly.”
I smiled, stepped into the kitchen, and almost instinctively called out, “Hello, Aunt Margaret! How are you feeling?”
But the moment the woman turned, I realised—this wasn’t her mother. This was her third husband’s mother. Her mother-in-law. And here was Emily, sweetly calling her “Mummy.” Just like she had with all the others.
I remembered how it had been with the first and the second. With Thomas—husband number one—she’d called his mother “Mum” from day one.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” I’d hissed in her ear. “You don’t even know her! She’s *not* your mum.”
Emily just smiled. “It’s strategy. She’ll like it. She’ll accept me. And Tom will be happy. Simple.”
Except that “Mum” later talked about her behind her back. When Thomas would stumble home drunk at dawn, and Emily would call, his mother would sigh, “Oh, love, what do you expect? A man needs to unwind…”
Two years later—divorce. They had a child, but none of the “Mums” ever cared about the boy or Emily.
The second time was different. That mother-in-law took one look at her and sniffed, “You’re not right for my boy. Take him wherever you like, even a care home. There’s no money for him here.”
And still, Emily called her “Mum.” Until she realised behind that “Mum” was nothing but cold indifference. They divorced, mercifully, without children.
Now, marriage number three, and the same script plays out. The same honeyed words. The same naive hope that if she says “Mummy,” the woman will soften, become family.
But no. It doesn’t work.
I know what I’m talking about. I have a mother-in-law too. And we… we don’t just get along. We genuinely respect each other. We can talk for hours, laugh together, pick blackberries in summer or debate telly dramas. But we call each other by our first names. And that doesn’t stop us from being closer than some blood relatives.
Because “Mum” isn’t a title you use for advantage. It’s a medal. You have to earn it. You can’t buy it with flattery or a casserole. A real mother isn’t the one who walked into your life with a husband. It’s the one who stays—forever.
And yes, sometimes a mother-in-law *does* become dearer than your own. It happens. But it’s rare. The exception. Not the rule.
So when I hear:
“Mum, would you like some tea?”
“Mummy, how are you feeling today?”
I ask myself the same question every time: Is that love? Or just pretending by habit?
