The moment I gave 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 bothered to call.
There’s a saying: “Out of sight, out of mind.” I catch myself thinking about it more and more after every conversation with my mother. It’s as if she’s forgotten she has a daughter, not just a son. How else could I explain her indifference?
After finishing school, I left my hometown because I couldn’t see a future there. I wanted to escape, make something of myself in a big city—London was the dream. Get a degree, build a career, carve out a life. That’s where I met my husband. We married, and a little later, we had a child. If it hadn’t been for his parents, life would’ve been unthinkably hard.
My in-laws helped 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 like family to me—she taught me so much, supported me through everything. Still, I longed for a home of our own. Not because I didn’t love them, but because I wanted our family to have its own space.
And my mother? My mother was barely in my life. The odd phone call, usually just to complain about her struggles or gush over my brother. She never once asked how I was. But I knew every detail about him—his grades, the jeans he wore, how tall he’d grown over the summer. This had been the norm since university. She never cared about my exams, but she’d proudly announce his straight As in PE.
I got used to it. But when my husband and I finally bought our own home, I called to share the news. And what did she do? Hardly listened. She had something far more important—my brother was getting married!
“Can you believe it? Such a lovely girl! Aunt Irene’s daughter, remember her? The wedding’s in a month! So much to do!”
She chirped happily about venue hire, dress shopping, 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 just couldn’t be bothered.
My brother was nineteen, his fiancée eighteen. Where did they get the money for a wedding? Turned out, Mum and the in-laws had chipped in. For us? They’d said, “Well, come if you can.” We didn’t. Work was hectic, and honestly, I didn’t want to. My brother and I had never been close, and that day, I felt the sting of my mother’s neglect.
Six months later, she called again. Not to ask about us—but to announce they’d bought my brother and his wife a flat near hers.
“A mortgage? No need! We sold Gran’s flat, the in-laws helped, and there you go—all done!”
Gran’s flat… She’d always said she’d keep it, rent it out for extra income when she retired. When I was living in a cramped rental with a baby, it never crossed her mind to offer it to us. Not a penny came our way. But now? Gifts, attention, financial support—all for him.
The deepest wound came when I got pregnant. I was terrified. I wanted my mother there, even just at first. I even offered to pay her train fare—just so she’d come. But she couldn’t. Said my niece (my brother’s daughter) had a cold, so she had to stay. Never mind that his wife had her own mother.
My mother-in-law saw everything. She showed up at the hospital, held me, packed my things, got the house ready. After the birth, she was there every moment—feeding me, cleaning, taking the baby out so I could rest. I just lay there and cried—out of gratitude. And Mum? When I texted her about her new granddaughter, all she replied was, “Congrats.” Nothing else. No call. No questions about me, the baby, how the birth went.
Two weeks passed—silence. Then she rang, but only to boast that “the little one’s nearly walking.” Meaning my niece. I listened in silence, then hung up. That was the last time I called her. And she—well, she never called me either.
Maybe it’s better this way. I’m tired of feeling like an afterthought. To her, it seems she only has one child, one grandchild. Fine. Let her think that. But the hurt doesn’t fade so easily.
