“Why wasn’t I invited?”— my mother-in-law pouts, and I’m left torn between guilt and irritation.
Recently, my husband and I drove down to the countryside for my aunt’s birthday—a lovely little gathering, some barbecue, family chit-chat, the usual. We came back in high spirits, but the next day, a phone call made my stomach drop.
“You never invited me!” she said, her voice thick with hurt.
And it wasn’t the first time. She expects an invitation to every single event involving my side of the family. She obsesses over where we’ve been, who was there, and why she wasn’t included—even when she has no business being there.
“We’re family!” she accuses. “You and my son were invited, so why not me?”
I’m running out of excuses. And hiding our outings is pointless—she’s *tech-savvy*, scrolling through social media, tracking every relative’s profile, scrutinising photos and stories. No one dares decline her friend request (awkward, right?), so she sees it all. The moment she spots us somewhere without her, the theatrics begin.
We’ve been married four years, living in a cosy little flat my relatives gifted us—a one-bedder, but ours. We’re saving up for something roomier. My family’s huge: three sisters, a swarm of cousins, all tight-knit and forever in touch. We’re always meeting up—somebody’s garden, somebody’s flat, the odd pub gathering. My husband gets on brilliantly with my brother—fishing trips, holidays, the lot. My family adore him.
But his side? Entirely opposite. No father, no grandparents—just his mother. And, let’s be honest, she’s not the most pleasant woman. When she visits, she sits stone-faced, as if everything offends her. The music’s too loud, the kids laugh too much, the conversation’s all wrong. Every time, I’m stuck playing tour guide, explaining who’s who, while she wrinkles her nose. “What’s *she* wearing that dress for?” “That man’s got no volume control, has he?”
She won’t say it to their faces, but she’ll unload it all on me later.
“Doesn’t that bother you?” a friend asked when I vented.
“Massively,” I said. “But what can I do? She’s his mum. And it’s not like she’s openly rude—just acts like she’d rather be anywhere else.”
My family noticed long ago. That’s why they hardly invite her. Not to be cruel, but because she makes it painfully clear she doesn’t *want* to be there. Yet she doesn’t see it. The moment she hears about another gathering, it starts:
“So… plans this weekend? Oh, your sister’s birthday? Pub or at home? Right. You’ll all be having a grand time while I’m stuck alone…”
And there I am, drowning in guilt, as if I *owe* it to her to drag her along—even though no one asked, and no one wants the awkwardness. Once, she even *let herself into our flat* while we were at a family do, then rang later, furious we hadn’t taken her. She hadn’t even had anyone to *talk to*!
I’ve tried telling my husband this isn’t normal—that his mum crosses lines. He just shrugs.
“You know how it is—she’s lonely. It’s hard for her.”
But that’s no excuse to invade our lives. Why not join a book club, take up knitting, *anything*? Instead, she just plays the pity card—moaning about having no friends, how even the neighbours avoid her.
One incident still makes me shudder. Early in our marriage, my sister was heavily pregnant. At a family lunch, my mother-in-law launched into horror stories—botched births, stillborn babies, childbirth nightmares. My sister fled in tears. Why? Just *why*? She *knew* how vulnerable my sister was—but other people’s feelings might as well not exist to her.
Now she’s fishing for our New Year’s plans—where we’ll be, who’s coming. And I don’t even want to answer, because it’ll be the same cycle: sulking, guilt-trips, manipulation.
Sometimes I want to snap: “You don’t get a front-row seat to *everything* in my life. If you don’t want to feel left out, *stop making everyone else feel guilty*.” But I bite my tongue—for my husband’s sake. For peace.
Though, honestly… how much longer can I keep this up?
