“A Mother-in-Law Closer Than My Own Mum: The Hard Truth of My Life”
This is the story of how one woman became a true mother to me, while the other stayed just a name on a birth certificate.
My birth mother always cared more about her own mood, her wants, her peace. I was somewhere in the background—like an obligation, not a priority. Now she’s furious that I don’t drop everything for her, that I’m closer to, as she puts it, “some other woman” than the one who gave birth to me. But she made it that 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—soaps, her mates, some everlasting irritation. Homework checks ended with a slap, and conversations with a sharp yell.
“Bloody hell, can’t I even watch telly in peace?!” she’d snap if I so much as opened my mouth.
She never came to a single school play. Every parents’ evening ended with her complaints. My nan was my rock, and even my stepdad—a stranger at first—showed me more kindness. He helped with schoolwork, signed me up for the library, actually cared about my life. I loved him. When he left, I cried harder than she did. She hardly seemed to notice.
After that, we drifted completely. I was on my own. So was she. Sure, she fed me, clothed me. But she never asked how my day was, never hugged me, never showed interest. I could’ve gone off the rails, but instinct kept me steady.
When I left school, Mum refused to pay for uni. “Want it? Earn it yourself,” she said. I worked long hours, took any job going, never complained. At one place, I met James—my future husband. We fell in love, had a small wedding, and moved in with his parents.
And that’s when my life changed.
His mum, Margaret, wasn’t just kind. She became a real mother to me—no drama, no judgment, no guilt trips. She listened, supported, gave advice when I asked. Never intruded, but was always there.
For the first time, I felt true warmth. This was family. I wasn’t scared to be myself or make mistakes. I didn’t need armor around her. And slowly, I started calling her “Mum”—it just felt right.
I rang my birth mum once a week, just so she couldn’t say I’d abandoned her. But every call ended with “You’re ungrateful, you’ve thrown me away.” 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. But your mum still wants you living her life, not yours.”
Twelve years into our marriage, we’ve got two beautiful kids. We’ve moved into our own flat now, while James’s parents live out in the countryside. The kids adore visiting them. But going to see my mum? They don’t want to. Even James and I only go out of duty, not love.
She sulks. Blames me. Says I’ve betrayed her. But I know: a real mum isn’t just the one who gave birth—it’s the one who loves you. Margaret became that for me. She’s there. She lifts me up. She celebrates my wins and helps me through the losses.
I don’t punish my birth mum. No. I help how I should—groceries, meds, bills. But my heart’s been closed to her for years. Too much hurt. Too much neglect she called “parenting.”
Maybe some will judge me. But this is my truth. My life. And my mother-in-law? She’s more my mum than my own mother ever was.
