**A Mother-in-Law Closer Than Blood: The Bitter Truth of My Life**
A story about how one woman became my mother, while another remained just a name on paper.
My birth mother always cared more about her own moods, her desires, her peace. I existed somewhere in the background—like a shadow, something obligatory but unimportant. Now she’s angry I don’t come running at her every call, that I’m closer to a ‘stranger’—as she calls her—than to the woman who gave birth to me. But she made it this way herself.
From childhood, I lived by one simple rule: don’t disturb Mum. It guaranteed quiet at home and no shouting matches. She was busy with herself, her soap operas, her friends, and some endless irritation. Homework checks ended with a slap, and conversations with a sharp yell.
“For God’s sake, can’t I even watch telly in peace?” she’d snap if I so much as opened my mouth.
She never came to a single school play. Not one parents’ evening passed without her complaints. My grandmother was my support—even my stepdad, a stranger, showed me more kindness. He helped with homework, took me to the library, genuinely cared about my life. I loved him. And when he left, I cried more than she did. She barely noticed.
After that, we drifted apart completely. I was on my own. So was she. Sure, she fed me, clothed me. But she never asked how I was, never hugged me, never took an interest. I could’ve gone off the rails, but instinct kept me steady.
When I finished school, she refused to pay for uni. “If you want it, earn it yourself,” she said. So I worked—hard, whatever jobs I could find, without complaint. In one company, I met William, my future husband. We fell in love, had a quiet wedding, and moved in with his parents.
That’s when my life changed.
His mother, Margaret, wasn’t just a good woman. She became my real mother—no tantrums, no judgement, no guilt. She listened, supported, offered advice only when I asked. Never interfered but was always there.
For the first time, I felt warmth. Family. I wasn’t afraid to be myself or make mistakes. I didn’t have to brace for an attack. And one day, I called her ‘Mum’—it was that natural.
I called my birth mother once a week—just so she couldn’t claim I’d forgotten her. But every call ended with “You’re ungrateful, you’ve abandoned me,” and I’d hang up with a lump in my throat.
“She’s just jealous,” Margaret would say. “You’ve built your own family now. But your mother still wants you to live her life.”
Twelve years into our marriage, we have two wonderful kids. We’ve moved to our own flat, while William’s parents retired to the countryside. The children adore visiting them. But they never ask to see my mother. We only drop by on holidays—out of duty, not love.
She resents it. Accuses me. Says I betrayed her. But I know the truth: a real mother isn’t just the one who gave birth, but the one who loves. Margaret became that for me. She’s there. She supports me. She celebrates my wins and helps me through losses.
I don’t spite my mother. No. I help—groceries, bills, medicine. But my heart’s been closed to her for years. Too much hurt. Too much neglect she called ‘parenting.’
Some might judge me for saying it. But this is my truth. My life. And my mother-in-law? She’s more my mother than my own ever was.
