There’s a saying: “Out of sight, out of mind.” I often think of it after speaking with my mother. It feels as though she’s forgotten she has not only a son but a daughter too. How else to explain her indifference?
After finishing school, I left my village, seeing no future there. I longed to break free, to make something of myself in the city—to study, to build a life. It was there I met my husband, married, and soon after, we welcomed our child. Had it not been for my mother-in-law and father-in-law, life would have been impossibly hard.
They helped with the mortgage deposit, and we even lived with them for two years to save for our own home. It wasn’t easy, but we managed. My mother-in-law became like a second mother—teaching me, supporting me. Still, I dreamed of a place of our own, not out of ingratitude, but for the sake of our little family’s privacy.
And my own mother? She was scarcely part of my life. Rare calls, mostly to complain or recount some new tale about my brother. Never once did she ask how I was. Yet I knew his grades, his new jeans, how much he’d grown over summer. This had been the norm since university—she never cared about my exams but boasted of his marks in PE.
I grew used to it. Yet when we finally bought our home and took out the mortgage, I called to share the news. And what then? She barely listened. Something far more important had happened—my brother was getting married!
“Such a lovely girl!” she gushed. “You remember Aunt Irene’s daughter? The wedding’s next month—so much to arrange!” She chirped about venues, dresses, guest lists. I remembered how, before my wedding, she’d called it a waste of money. In the end, she didn’t even come, claiming illness. I still think she simply couldn’t be bothered.
My brother was nineteen, his bride eighteen. Where did the money come from? Mother and his in-laws pooled their savings, it seemed. For us? “Come if you can,” was all they said. We didn’t go—too much work, and truthfully, no desire. My brother and I were never close, and Mother’s favouritism stung.
Months later, another call—not to ask after us, but to announce they’d bought my brother a flat near her home. “No mortgage,” she said brightly. “We sold Granny’s flat, his in-laws chipped in—simple!”
Granny’s flat. She’d always said she’d keep it for retirement income. When I was renting with a baby, it never crossed her mind to offer it. Not a penny came our way. But for him—gifts, care, endless help.
The deepest hurt came when I fell pregnant. I was terrified, longing for my mother, just for a little while. I even offered to pay her fare—but she couldn’t come. My niece (my brother’s daughter) had a cold, she said—she had to stay. Never mind that my sister-in-law had a mother too.
My mother-in-law understood at once. She came to the hospital, held me, helped me pack, readied the house. After the birth, she was there every moment—feeding, cleaning, walking the baby while I lay weeping with gratitude. And Mother? A text: “Congratulations.” Nothing more. No call. No questions about me, the baby, the birth.
Two weeks passed—silence. When she finally rang, it was only to boast that “the little one’s nearly walking”—meaning my niece. I listened, silent, then hung up. I haven’t called since. Neither has she.
Perhaps it’s better this way. I’m tired of feeling unwanted. To her, it seems, there’s only one child, only one grandchild. Let it be so. But the heart doesn’t ache any less for it.
