**Diary Entry**
Every time I hear someone call their mother-in-law “Mum,” a shiver runs down my spine. It’s not because I’m cruel or envious. It’s because, to me, that word is sacred. You don’t just hand it out to anyone. A mother isn’t just a woman related to you by marriage. A mother is the one who raised you, stayed up through the night, wept in frustration, yet still got up the next morning and fought for you all over again.
I’ve a close friend—Emily. We’ve known each other since childhood—she was my bridesmaid, and I’ve been at all three of her weddings. We’ve been through so much together, and despite life, kids, and moving around, we’ve stuck by each other. I often joke:
“Right, Em, shall we wait till the kids are off to uni, then hit the clubs once we’re retired?”
The other day, I popped round to drop off some medicine she’d asked for—couldn’t drive with her car in the garage. Handing over the bag, she nodded toward the kitchen:
“It’s not for me. Mum’s feeling poorly.”
I smiled, stepped in, and almost instinctively called out:
“Hello, Mrs. Whitmore! How are you holding up?”
Then the woman turned, and I realised—that wasn’t *her* mother. It was her third husband’s mum. Her mother-in-law. And yet, Emily was calling her “Mum.” Just like she had with all the others.
I remembered how it went with the first two. With James—her first husband—she’d started calling his mother “Mum” from day one.
“Have you lost the plot?” I’d hissed under my breath. “You barely know her! She’s *not* your mum!”
Emily just grinned.
“It’s strategy. She’ll like it. Accept me faster. Plus, James loves it. Simple.”
Except that “Mum” later spat venom behind her back. When James drank himself into oblivion, vanishing for nights, and Emily rang in tears, the woman just sighed:
“Dear, what do you expect? Men get tired…”
Two years later—divorce. They had a son, but none of those “mums” ever cared about him—or Emily.
With the second, it was different. That mother-in-law took one look and snapped:
“That boy’s not your problem. Send him off somewhere, foster care if you must. I’ve no money for him.”
Still, Emily called her “Mum”—until she realised that behind the word lay nothing but cold indifference. They split, thankfully, with no kids involved.
Now, it’s marriage number three, and the script hasn’t changed. The same affectionate words, the same naïve hope that saying “Mum” will melt her heart, make her family.
But it doesn’t work.
I know what I’m saying. I’ve a mother-in-law too. And we… we don’t just get along. We genuinely respect each other. We talk openly, laugh together, pick blackberries in the garden, debate telly dramas. But we call each other by our first names. And that doesn’t stop us being closer than some blood relatives.
Because “Mum” isn’t a title you use for convenience. It’s like a medal—you earn it. You can’t buy it with flattery or favours. A real mother isn’t the one who walks into your life with a husband. It’s the one who stays—for good.
Yes, sometimes a mother-in-law *does* become closer than your own mother. It happens. But it’s rare. The exception. Never the rule.
So when I hear:
“Mum, would you like some tea?”
“Mum, how are you feeling today?”
I can’t help asking myself the same question: Is that love? Or just pretending for comfort’s sake?
