“Do you call your mother-in-law ‘Mum’? Are you sure you know who your real mother is?”
Whenever I hear someone address their mother-in-law as “Mum,” a shiver runs down my spine. Not because I’m bitter or envious, but because that word is sacred to me. It’s not something to be handed out carelessly. A mother isn’t just a woman who became family through a marriage certificate. A mother is the one who raised you, stayed awake through sleepless nights, wept in moments of helplessness, yet still rose each morning and fought for you.
I have a dear friend—Eleanor. We’ve been close since childhood; she stood as a witness at my wedding, and I at all three of hers. We’ve been through so much together, and despite life’s twists—children, moves, upheavals—we’ve held onto each other. I often tease her:
“Well, Ellie, shall we wait until the kids are off to university, then hit the clubs in our retirement?”
Recently, I stopped by her place at her request—I’d brought medicine from the chemist, as she couldn’t go out herself while her car was being repaired. Handing her the bag, she nodded and said,
“It’s not for me. Mum’s feeling poorly.”
I smiled, stepped into the kitchen, and nearly blurted out without thinking:
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Agnes! How are you feeling?”
Only when the woman turned to face me did I realise—this wasn’t her mother. It was the mother of her third husband. Her mother-in-law. And yet Eleanor affectionately called her “Mum.” Just as she had with all the others before.
I remembered how it had been with the first two. With William, her first husband, she’d called his mother “Mum” from the very beginning.
“Have you lost your mind?” I’d hissed in her ear back then. “You don’t even know her! She’s not your mother!”
But Eleanor only smiled.
“It’s strategy. It’ll please her. She’ll accept me. And Will’s happy. Simple as that.”
Yet that “Mum” later spat venom behind her back. When William drank himself senseless, disappeared for nights on end, and Eleanor called in distress, the woman would only sigh and say,
“Well, what do you expect, dear? A man needs his rest…”
Two years later—divorce. They’d had a child, but none of those so-called “mums” cared about their grandson or Eleanor.
The second time was different. That mother-in-law had been openly hostile from the start:
“That boy isn’t for you. Take him wherever you like—even the orphanage. I’ve no money for him.”
Still, Eleanor called her “Mum”—until she finally understood that behind the word lay nothing but cold cruelty. They divorced, thankfully, without children.
Now, in her third marriage, the same pattern repeats. The same honeyed words. The same naïve hope that saying “Mum” might make this woman soften, might make her family.
But it doesn’t. It never does.
I speak from experience. I, too, have a mother-in-law. And we… we don’t just get along. We genuinely respect each other. We share confidences, laugh together, pick strawberries in the garden or gossip about the latest telly drama. But we call each other by our given names. And that doesn’t stop us from being closer than some blood relatives.
Because “Mum” isn’t a title to be wielded for convenience. It’s a medal—one you earn. You can’t buy it, barter it for trifles or forced smiles. A real mother isn’t the woman who came into your life with a husband. She’s the one who stays—forever.
Yes, sometimes a mother-in-law does become dearer than one’s own mother. It happens. But it’s rare. The exception—not the rule.
So when I hear—
“Mum, would you like some tea?”
“Mum, how are you feeling?”
I ask myself the same question: Is this love? Or just the habit of pretending?
