There’s a saying: “Out of sight, out of mind.” I find myself thinking of it more and more after every call with my mum. It’s as if she’s forgotten she doesn’t just have a son—she has a daughter too. How else could you explain her indifference?
After finishing school, I left my hometown because I couldn’t see a future there. I wanted to break free, make something of myself in the city. I went to university, got a degree, built my own life. That’s where I met my husband, got married, and later had a baby. If it weren’t for my in-laws, we’d have struggled terribly.
His parents 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 a second mum to me—she taught me so much, always had my back. Still, I longed for a place of our own. Not because I didn’t love them, but I wanted our family to have its own space.
Then there’s my mum. She was barely present in my life. Rare calls, and even those were mostly complaints about her life or endless stories about my brother. Never once did she ask how I was doing. But I knew every detail—his latest marks, the jeans he wore, how much taller he’d grown over summer. This had been normal since my uni days. She never cared how my exams went but bragged endlessly about his top marks in PE.
I got used to it. But when my husband and I finally bought our own home, I called her to share the good news. And what happened? She barely listened. There was something far more important—my brother was getting married!
“Imagine, such a lovely girl!” she chirped. “Your Aunt Irene’s daughter, remember her? The wedding’s next month! So much to organise!”
She prattled on about venue hire, dresses, guest lists… I remembered how, before my own wedding, she’d called it a waste of money. In the end, she didn’t even show, claiming she was ill. Deep down, I think she just didn’t want to.
My brother was nineteen, his bride eighteen. Where did they get the money? Turns out, Mum and his in-laws pooled their savings. For us, though, it was just, “Well, come if you can.” We didn’t. Work was busy, and honestly, I couldn’t be bothered. I’d never been close to my brother anyway, and Mum’s favouritism stung.
Six months later, she rang again—not to ask how we were, but to announce they’d bought my brother and his wife a flat near hers.
“Why take a mortgage?” she said. “We sold Nan’s flat, his in-laws chipped in, and that was that!”
Nan’s flat… She always said she’d keep it—rent it out for retirement. When I was in a tiny rented flat with my husband and baby, she never once offered it. Not a penny came our way. But for him—gifts, attention, endless support.
The worst came when I got pregnant. I was terrified. I wanted my mum there, just for a little while. I even offered to pay her travel—just so she’d come. But she couldn’t. My niece (his daughter) had a cold, she said, and she had to stay. Never mind that my sister-in-law probably had her own mother. Didn’t matter.
My mother-in-law knew straight away. She came to the hospital, hugged me, helped pack my things, got the house ready. After the birth, she was there every second—feeding me, cleaning, taking the baby for walks while I lay there crying with gratitude. And Mum? I texted her the news. Her reply? “Congrats.” That’s it. No call. No “How are you? How’s the baby? How was the birth?”
Two weeks passed—not a word. Then she finally rang, but only to boast that “the little one’s almost walking” (his daughter, of course). I listened in silence, then hung up. I haven’t called since. Neither has she.
Maybe it’s for the best. I’m tired of feeling like an afterthought. If Mum thinks she’s only got one child and one grandchild, fine. But it doesn’t make the hurt any less.
