After the birth, my mother-in-law surrounded me with such care that I couldn’t hold back my tears—while my own mum hadn’t even called.
There’s a saying: “Out of sight, out of mind.” I think of it more and more after every conversation with my mother. It’s as if she’s forgotten she doesn’t just have a son—she has a daughter too. How else can I explain her indifference?
After finishing school, I left my quiet village because I couldn’t see a future there. I wanted to escape, to make something of myself in the city. Get a degree, build a life. That’s where I met my husband. We married, and soon after, we had a child. If it weren’t for my in-laws, we would’ve struggled terribly.
They helped with the deposit for our mortgage. We even lived with them for two years to save for our own place. It wasn’t easy, but we made it. My mother-in-law became like family—supporting me, teaching me, always there. Still, I longed for my own space. Not because I didn’t love them, but because I wanted a home just for us.
But my own mother? She was barely in my life. The odd phone call, usually just to complain or gush about my brother. Never once did she ask how I was. But I knew his exam marks, the brand of his jeans, how much taller he’d grown over summer. It had been this way since uni. She never cared about my grades, yet she’d proudly boast about his PE results.
I got used to it. But when my husband and I finally bought our own home—when I called to share the joy—she barely listened. She had bigger news: my brother was getting married!
“Can you believe it? Such a lovely girl! Aunt Irene’s daughter, remember her?” she chirped. “The wedding’s next month—so much to arrange!”
She bubbled over with venue bookings and guest lists. I remembered how, before my own wedding, she’d called it a waste of money. In the end, she didn’t even come, claiming she was ill. I still think she just didn’t want to.
My brother was nineteen, his bride eighteen. Where did they get the money? Turns out, Mum and his in-laws chipped in. For us, she’d just said, “Well, come if you can.” We didn’t go. Work was busy, and frankly, I didn’t want to. My brother and I had never been close, and that time, Mum had hurt me.
Six months later, she called again—not to ask about us, but to announce they’d bought my brother a flat near hers.
“A mortgage? No, we sold Nan’s place, his in-laws helped too—all sorted!”
Nan’s flat… She’d always said she’d keep it, rent it out for retirement. When I was juggle a baby and a rented flat, it never crossed her mind to offer it. Not a penny came our way. But for him? Gifts, help, fuss.
The worst part came when I fell pregnant. I was terrified. I needed my mum—just for a little while, just at the start. I even offered to pay her train fare. But she couldn’t come. My niece—my brother’s daughter—had a cold, she said. Never mind that his wife surely had her own mother. It didn’t matter.
My mother-in-law saw it all. She came to the hospital, held me, packed my things, made the house ready. After the birth, she was there every second—feeding, cleaning, taking the baby so I could rest. I just lay there and cried—grateful. And Mum? When I texted her the news, she wrote back: “Congratulations.” That was it. No call. No questions about me, the baby, how it went.
Two weeks passed. Nothing. Then she rang—not to check on us, but to crow that my niece was “already nearly walking.” I listened in silence, then hung up. I haven’t called since. Neither has she.
Maybe it’s for the best. I’m tired of feeling like an afterthought. To Mum, it seems she only has one child—one grandchild. Fine. Let it be that way. But it doesn’t make my heart ache any less.
