“Do you call your mother-in-law ‘Mum’? Are you absolutely sure who your real mother is?”
Every time I hear someone refer to their mother-in-law as “Mum,” it sends shivers down my spine. Not because I’m bitter or jealous—but because to me, that word is sacred. It’s not something you toss around lightly. A mother isn’t just a woman who becomes family by marriage. A mother is the one who raised you, stayed up nights, cried in frustration, yet still got up each morning and fought for you.
I’ve got a close friend, Emily. We’ve known each other since we were kids—she was my bridesmaid, and I’ve stood by her through all three of her weddings. Life’s taken us in different directions, with children, moves, and everything in between, but we’ve stuck together. I joke with her sometimes:
“Right, Em, once the kids are off to uni, we’ll retire and hit the clubs, yeah?”
The other day, I popped round to hers to drop off some medicine from the chemist—her car was in the shop, so she couldn’t get out. Handing her the bag, she nodded and said,
“This isn’t for me. It’s for Mum—she’s poorly.”
I smiled, stepped into the kitchen, and without thinking, called out,
“Hello, Mrs. Whitmore! How are you feeling?”
Only when the woman turned did I realise—this wasn’t her mother. This was the mother of her third husband. Her mother-in-law. And Emily was calling her “Mum.” Just like she’d done with all the others.
I remembered how it went with the first two. With James—her first husband—she’d called his mother “Mum” from the start.
“Are you mad?” I’d hissed in her ear. “You don’t even know her! She’s not your mum!”
Emily just smiled.
“It’s strategy. She’ll like it. She’ll accept me. And James will be happy. Simple.”
Except that “mum” ended up stabbing her in the back. When James would come home drunk or disappear for nights, and Emily rang her in tears, she’d sigh and say,
“Well, love, what do you expect? Men need their space.”
Two years later—divorce. They had a child, but none of those “mums” ever cared about the boy or Emily.
The second time was different. That mother-in-law made her stance clear from the start:
“That lad’s no good for you. Take him back where he came from—dump him in care if you must. We’ve no money for him.”
Still, Emily called her “Mum.” Right up until she realised that behind that word was nothing but cold indifference. They divorced, thankfully without children.
Now, she’s on her third marriage, and it’s the same story. The same sweet words. The same naïve hope that saying “Mum” will melt that woman’s heart and make her family.
But it doesn’t work.
I know what I’m talking about. I’ve got a mother-in-law too. And we… we don’t just get along. We genuinely respect each other. We talk properly, laugh together, pick apples in the orchard or debate telly dramas. But we call each other by our first names. And that doesn’t stop us from being closer than some blood relatives.
Because “Mum” isn’t a title you use for advantage. It’s a medal—you have to earn it. You can’t buy it with kindness or sweet words. A real mother isn’t the one who walks into your life with a husband. She’s the one who stays—forever.
Yes, sometimes a mother-in-law does become closer than a birth mother. It happens. But it’s rare. The exception, not the rule.
So when I hear:
“Mum, would you like some tea?”
“Mum, how are you feeling?”
I ask myself the same question every time: Is that love? Or just pretending by habit?
