“Do you call your mother-in-law ‘Mum’? Are you sure you know 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 that word is sacred to me. It’s not something you toss around lightly. A mother isn’t just a woman who becomes your relative through marriage. A mother is the one who raised you, stayed up nights with you, cried in frustration, yet still got up every morning and fought for you.
I have a close friend—Emily. We’ve known each other since childhood. She was my bridesmaid, and I’ve been at all three of her weddings. We’ve been through a lot together, and despite life, children, and moving around, we’ve stuck by each other. I often joke, “Well, Em, shall we wait till the kids are off to uni, then hit the clubs when we retire?”
Recently, I popped over to hers to drop off some medicine—she couldn’t get out herself because her car was at the garage. Handing her the bag, she nods and says, “This isn’t for me. Mum’s not feeling well.”
I smile and walk into the kitchen, automatically blurting out, “Hello, Aunt Beatrice! How are you?”
Only when the woman turns to me do I realise—this isn *her* mum. This is her third husband’s mother. Her mother-in-law. And yet, Emily affectionately calls her “Mum.” Just like she did with all the others.
I remember how it was with the first one. With William—her first husband—she called his mother “Mum” from day one. “Are you mad?” I hissed in her ear back then. “You don’t even know her! She’s not your mother!”
Emily just grinned. “It’s strategy. It’ll make her happy. She’ll warm up to me. Plus, Will likes it. Simple.”
Except that “Mum” later spat venom behind her back. When William would come home drunk, disappear for nights, and Emily would call, his mother would just sigh and say, “What do you expect, love? Men need their space…”
Two years later—divorce. They had a child, but none of those “mums” ever cared about their grandchild—or Emily.
The second one was different. That mother-in-law made her stance clear right away: “That boy’s not your responsibility. Ship him off to a care home if you want. We’re not paying for him.”
And yet, Emily still called her “Mum.” Until she realised that behind the word was nothing but cold indifference. They divorced—thankfully—with no children involved.
Now, here we are with the third marriage, and it’s the same song and dance. The same sweet words. The same naive hope that calling her “Mum” will magically make her warm and loving.
But it doesn’t work.
I know what I’m talking about. I have a mother-in-law too. And we don’t just *get along*—we genuinely respect each other. We talk openly, laugh together, pick blackberries in the garden, or gossip about the latest telly drama. 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 convenience. It’s a medal—one you *earn*. You can’t buy it, or win it over with a smile and a slice of cake. A real mother isn’t someone who walks into your life because of a husband. She’s the one who stays—forever.
Yes, sometimes a mother-in-law *does* become closer than your own 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 always ask myself the same question: Is this love? Or just another habit of pretending?.
