**Diary Entry**
*”Why wasn’t I invited?”*—my mother-in-law’s question hangs in the air, leaving me torn between guilt and frustration.
Just the other day, my husband and I drove to the countryside for my aunt’s birthday—good food, laughter, the usual warm family chatter. We came home in high spirits, only for my heart to plummet the next day when the phone rang.
*”And why wasn’t I invited?”* Her voice was thick with hurt.
This wasn’t the first time. She expects an invitation to every event involving my side of the family—always probing, always offended when left out. But why should she even be involved?
*”We’re family!”* she insists reproachfully. *”If you and James were there, why not me?”*
I’m tired of excuses. Hiding our outings is pointless—she’s *thorough*, trawling through social media, scrutinising every relative’s post, every tagged photo. No one dares refuse her a follow, so she always knows. And if we dare go anywhere without her? Drama unfolds.
James and I have been married four years. We live in a small flat—my family’s gift—while saving for something larger. My side is big: three sisters, countless cousins, all close-knit. There’s always some gathering—a weekend at someone’s cottage, a meal in town, birthdays at cafés. James fits right in; he and my brother go fishing, share pints, celebrate holidays together. He was welcomed with open arms.
But his side? Entirely different. No father, no grandparents—just his mother. And honestly? She’s not easy company. Visits are stiff, her face permanently pinched, as if everything—music, children’s laughter, even conversation—irritates her. I’m always explaining who’s who, bracing for her muttered judgements later: *”What on earth was she wearing?”* or *”That man was far too loud.”*
She’d never say it to their faces, but she’ll make sure *I* hear it.
*”Doesn’t it bother you?”* my best friend asked when I confided in her.
*”Immensely,”* I admitted. *”But what can I do? She’s his mother. She tries not to be outright rude, but everything about her screams, ‘I don’t belong here, and I don’t like you.’”*
My family noticed long ago. That’s why they rarely invite her—not to slight her, but because she *alienates* people. Yet she doesn’t see it. The moment she catches wind of a gathering, the interrogation begins:
*”What are your plans this weekend? Oh, your sister’s birthday? Where’s the party? A restaurant? So, you’ll all be having fun while I sit alone at home…”*
And there it is—the guilt, heavy as lead. As if I’m obligated to bring her where no one wants her. One time, she even turned up at our flat *while* we were out with my family, then rang later, outraged. *”You left me with no one to talk to!”*
I’ve tried explaining to James that her behaviour isn’t healthy—that she crosses lines. But he just shrugs. *”You know how it is. She’s lonely.”*
That’s no excuse to invade our lives. Why not find friends, a hobby, *something*? Instead, it’s just pity—constant reminders that she has no friends, that even the neighbours avoid her.
One memory still chills me. Early in our marriage, my sister was heavily pregnant. At a family dinner, his mother launched into horror stories—botched births, infant deaths, every gruesome detail imaginable. My sister fled in tears. I was stunned. *Why* would she do that? She *knew* the state my sister was in. But other people’s feelings? Irrelevant.
Now, she’s fishing again—where are we spending New Year’s? Who’ll be there? I don’t even want to answer. I already know what’s coming: the sulking, the guilt-tripping, the same old cycle.
Sometimes I want to snap: *”You don’t get to be part of everything. If you don’t want to feel left out, stop making everyone else feel guilty for leaving you out.”* But I hold my tongue. For James. For peace.
Though if I’m truly honest… how much longer can I keep doing this?
