**Diary Entry**
*”Why wasn’t I invited?”* The resentment in my mother-in-law’s voice made my stomach clench—again.
Just last weekend, my husband and I drove down to the countryside for my aunt’s birthday. A lovely little gathering: barbecue, good company, the usual family chatter. We came back in high spirits—until her call the next day.
*”Why didn’t you ask me to come?”* she demanded, the hurt dripping from every word.
This wasn’t the first time. She expects an invitation to *every* event involving my family—where we went, who was there, why *she* wasn’t included. As if she has a right to be part of it all.
*”We’re family!”* she insists, accusingly. *”If you and my son were invited, why not me?”*
I’m tired of making excuses. And hiding plans is pointless—she’s *tech-savvy*. Scours social media, stalks every relative’s page, watches every story and post. No one dares deny her a follow—too awkward—so she sees everything. And if we’re somewhere without her? Drama unfolds.
We’ve been married four years, living in a flat my relatives gifted us. A small one-bed, but ours. Saving up for something bigger. My family’s large—three sisters, a horde of cousins—close-knit, always meeting up. Someone’s garden, a city flat, sometimes a pub. My husband gets on brilliantly with them, especially my brother—fishing trips, holidays, the lot. They welcomed him with open arms.
But his side? The opposite. No father, no grandparents. Just his mother—and frankly, she’s hard work. Comes over, sits in silence, face twisted like everything’s beneath her. Hates the music, kids laughing, even casual chat. Every time, I play *tour guide*, explaining who’s who—only for her to wrinkle her nose later. *”Why’s that one dressed like that?” “That man’s far too loud.”*
She’d never say it to their faces. Just saves it all for me.
*”Doesn’t it bother you?”* my mate asked when I vented.
*”Terrifically,”* I admitted. *”But what can I do? She’s his mum. She *tries* not to be rude, but her whole manner screams, ‘I don’t belong here, and I don’t like you.’”*
My family noticed long ago. That’s why they hardly invite her—not to slight her, but because *she* makes herself unwelcome. She doesn’t see it. Hears about a gathering? Immediate interrogation.
*”What are you doing this weekend? Oh, your sister’s birthday? Where’s the party? A restaurant or at home? Right. You’ll all be having fun while I’m alone.”*
Cue the guilt, like I *owe* it to bring her along. Even though no one asked—and no one wants the tension. Once, she even showed up at ours *while* we were at a family do. Phoned later, furious we’d ‘left her out’. Never mind there wasn’t a soul to talk to!
I’ve told my husband it’s not normal. That his mum oversteps. He just shrugs. *”You know how it is—she’s lonely.”*
But loneliness isn’t a free pass to invade our lives. She could make friends, pick up a hobby—*something*. Instead, it’s all pity plays. *No friends, even the neighbours avoid me.*
One moment still haunts me. Early in our marriage, my sister was heavily pregnant. At a family dinner, my mother-in-law launched into horror stories—botched births, infant deaths, childbirth nightmares. My sister fled in tears. I was livid. *Why say that? She knew how vulnerable she was!* But other people’s faces don’t register to her.
Now, she’s probing about New Year’s—where we’ll be, who’s hosting. I don’t even want to answer. Because I know what’s coming: the sulking, the guilt trips, the *manipulation*.
Sometimes, I want to snap: *”You don’t get a front-row seat to my life. If you hate feeling left out, stop making everyone else feel guilty.”* But I bite my tongue. For my husband. For peace.
Though—honestly? How much longer can I keep doing this?
**Lesson learned:** Setting boundaries isn’t cruelty—it’s survival. Some people will always mistake kindness for an open door.
