A Mother-in-Law Closer Than Blood: The Bitter Truth of My Life
This is the story of how one woman became my mother, while the other remained just a name on official documents.
My birth mother always cared more about her own moods, her desires, her peace of mind. Meanwhile, I faded into the background—a shadow, something obligatory but unimportant. Now, she’s furious I don’t come running at her beck and call, that I’m closer to a “stranger,” as she puts it, than to the woman who gave birth to me. But this is what she created.
From childhood, I lived by one simple rule: don’t disturb Mum. That kept the house quiet and avoided arguments. She was always busy—with herself, her soaps, her friends, some endless irritation. Homework checks ended with a smack, 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 attended a single school play. Every parents’ evening was laced with her complaints. My grandmother supported me, even my stepfather—a man with no blood ties—showed me more kindness. He helped with homework, signed me up for the library, genuinely cared about my life. I loved him. And when he left, I wept harder than she did. I don’t think she even noticed.
After that, we drifted for good. I kept to myself. So did she. Yes, she fed and clothed me—but never asked how my day was. Never hugged me. Never showed interest. I could have lost my way, but instinct kept me steady.
When I finished school, she refused to pay for further education. “If you want it, earn it yourself,” she said. So I did. I worked hard, taking any job I could, never complaining. At one firm, I met Edward, my future husband. We fell in love, had a modest wedding, and moved in with his parents.
That’s when everything changed.
His mother, Margaret, wasn’t just kind. She became my mother in every way that mattered. No hysterics, no judgment, no blame. She listened. She supported. She offered advice only when asked. Never intrusive, but always there.
For the first time, I felt warmth. This was family. I wasn’t afraid to be myself. I wasn’t afraid to fail. I didn’t need to brace for a fight. And one day, I realized I was calling her “Mum” without thinking—because it was natural.
I still called my birth mother once a week. Just so she couldn’t say I’d forgotten her. But every conversation ended with, “You’re ungrateful. You abandoned me.” And I’d hang up, my throat tight.
“She’s just jealous,” Margaret would say. “You have your own family now. Your mother still wants you to live her life.”
Twelve years into our marriage, we have two beautiful children. We’ve moved into our own flat, while Edward’s parents retired to the countryside. The kids adore visiting them. But my mother? They don’t want to go. And Edward and I only visit on holidays—out of duty, not love.
She resents it. Accuses me. Says I betrayed her. But I know now: 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 celebrates my victories and helps me through the hard moments.
I don’t punish my mother. I help where I must—groceries, medicine, bills. But I shut my heart to her long ago. Too much pain. Too much indifference she called “parenting.”
Maybe some will judge me. But this is my truth. My life. And my mother-in-law—she’s more my mother than my own ever was.
