A Mother-in-Law Closer Than My Own: The Bitter Truth of My Life
This is the story of how one woman became a mother to me, while the other remained just a name on a birth certificate.
My birth mother always cared more about her own moods, her desires, her peace. I was an afterthought—something obligatory but insignificant. Now she’s furious that I don’t come running at her every call, that I’m closer to a “stranger,” as she puts it, than to the woman who gave birth to me. But she made it this way.
From childhood, I lived by one simple rule: don’t disturb Mum. It kept the house quiet and avoided arguments. She was busy with herself, her soaps, her friends, some endless irritation. Homework checks ended with a clip round the ear, and conversations with a sharp yell.
“For heaven’s sake, can’t I even watch telly in peace?” she’d snap the moment I opened my mouth.
She never came to a single school play. Every parents’ evening was laced with her complaints. My nan was the one who supported me—even my stepdad, a stranger at first, showed me more kindness. He helped with schoolwork, signed me up for the library, genuinely cared about my life. I loved him. And when he left, I cried more than she did. I don’t think she even 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, Mum refused to pay for uni. “If you want it, earn it yourself,” she said. I worked hard, took any job, never complained. At a company in Manchester, I met James—my future husband. We fell in love, had a quiet wedding, and moved in with his parents.
That’s when my life changed.
His mum, Margaret, wasn’t just a kind woman. She became my mother in every way that mattered. No tantrums, no judgment, no nagging. She listened, supported, gave advice when I asked. Never interfered but was always there.
For the first time, I felt what warmth was. What family was. I wasn’t afraid to be myself. I wasn’t scared of making mistakes. I didn’t have to defend my every move. And I started calling her “Mum” without thinking—it just felt right.
I called my birth mother once a week, just so she couldn’t say I’d abandoned her. But every call ended with “You’re so ungrateful, you’ve thrown me away.” And I’d hang up with that familiar lump in my throat.
“She’s just jealous,” Margaret would say. “You’ve got your own family now. Your mum still wants you to live her life.”
Twelve years into our marriage, we have two wonderful kids. We’ve got our own flat now, while James’ parents have moved to the countryside. The children adore visiting them. But they don’t want to see my mum. Even James and I only stop by on holidays—out of duty, not love.
She sulks. Accuses. Says I’ve betrayed her. But I know this: a real mother isn’t just the one who gave birth. It’s the one who loves. Margaret became that for me. She’s there. She supports me. She genuinely celebrates my wins and helps me through the losses.
I’m not punishing my mother. No. I help her as I should—groceries, medicine, bills. But I shut my heart to her long ago. Too much hurt. Too much indifference she called “parenting.”
Some might judge me for this. But it’s my truth. My life. And my mother-in-law—she’s more family to me than my own mother ever was.
