**A Mother-in-Law Closer Than My Own Mother: The Bitter Truth of My Life**
This is the story of how one woman became my mother, while the other remains little more than a name on paper.
My birth mother always cared more about her own moods, her desires, her peace. I was background noise—something expected but unimportant. Now she’s angry that I don’t rush to her side at the slightest call, that I’m closer to another woman—as she puts it—than to the one who gave birth to me. But she made it this way.
From childhood, I lived by one rule: don’t disturb Mum. It kept the house quiet and avoided rows. She was busy with herself, her shows, her friends, a constant undercurrent of irritation. Homework checks ended with a smack, and conversations with a sharp, “For heaven’s sake, can’t I have some peace? Let me watch telly in silence!”
She never came to a single school play. Every parents’ evening was met with complaints. My grandmother held me up, and even my stepfather—a stranger—gave me more warmth. He helped with schoolwork, took me to the library, actually cared. I loved him. When he left, I cried more than Mum did. She barely seemed to notice.
After that, we drifted completely. I was on my own. So was she. Yes, she fed me, clothed me. But she never asked how I was, never hugged me, never showed interest. I could have easily lost my way, but somehow, I didn’t.
When I finished school, Mum refused to pay for further education. “If you want it, earn it yourself,” she said. So I did—working long hours, taking any job, never complaining. At one of those jobs, I met Edward, my future husband. We fell in love, had a small wedding, and moved in with his parents.
And that’s when everything changed.
His mother, Margaret, wasn’t just kind—she became my real mother. No hysterics, no judgment, no guilt. She listened, gave advice when I asked, never intruded but was always there. For the first time, I knew what warmth felt like. What family was. I wasn’t afraid to be myself or make mistakes. I didn’t need armour around her. Calling her “Mum” came naturally.
I still rang my birth mother once a week—just so she couldn’t accuse me of forgetting her. But every call ended with “You’re ungrateful, you’ve abandoned me,” leaving me with a lump in my throat.
“She’s just jealous,” Margaret would say. “You have your own family now. She still wants you to live her life.”
Twelve years into our marriage, we have two beautiful children and our own home now, while Edward’s parents have moved to the countryside. The kids adore visiting them. But they don’t want to see my mother—and neither do we, except out of duty on holidays.
She resents it. Accuses me. Says I’ve betrayed her. But I know the truth: a real mother isn’t just the one who gave birth—it’s the one who loves. Margaret is that for me. She’s there. She supports me. She celebrates my victories and helps me through the losses.
I don’t spite my mother. No. I help her as a child should—groceries, medicine, bills. But I shut my heart to her long ago. Too much pain. Too much indifference she called “parenting.”
Some might judge me. But this is my truth. My life. And my mother-in-law—she’s more my mother than my own ever was.
