“Do you call your mother-in-law ‘Mum’? And are you absolutely sure who your real mother is?”
Every time I hear someone refer to their mother-in-law as “Mum,” it sends shivers down my spine. Not because I’m bitter or jealous, but because to me, that word is sacred. You don’t just hand it out left and right. A mum isn’t just a woman who became family through a marriage certificate. A mum is the one who raised you, who stayed up nights, who cried from exhaustion but still got up in the morning and fought for you.
I’ve got a close friend—Emily. We’ve been mates since we were kids. She was my bridesmaid, and I’ve stood by her through all three of her weddings. We’ve been through so much together, and despite life, kids, and moving around, we’ve stuck by each other. I always joke with her, “So, Em, once the kids are off to uni, shall we hit the club scene in our retirement?”
The other day, I popped round to hers to drop off some medicine—she couldn’t get out because her car was in the shop. I handed her the bag, and she nodded, saying, “These aren’t for me. Mum’s not feeling well.”
I smiled and peeked into the kitchen, calling out automatically, “Hello, Aunt Beatrice! How are you feeling?”
But when the woman turned around, I realised—that wasn’t her mum. It was her third husband’s mother. Her mother-in-law. And there was Emily, sweetly calling her “Mum.” Just like she had with all the others.
I remembered how it went with the first one. With James—her first husband—she’d called his mother “Mum” from day one. “Have you lost the plot?” I’d hissed in her ear. “You don’t even know her! She’s not your mum!”
Emily just grinned. “It’s a strategy. She’ll like it. She’ll accept me. And James will be happy. Simple.”
Except that “Mum” ended up stabbing her in the back. When James would come home drunk, disappear for nights, and Emily would call her in tears, the woman would just sigh and say, “Well, love, what do you expect? Men need their space.”
Two years later—divorce. They had a kid, but none of those “mums” ever cared about the grandson. Or Emily.
The second one was different. That mother-in-law immediately put her foot down. “That boy’s nothing to you. Take him wherever you like, even to foster care. We’ve no money for him.”
Still, Emily called her “Mum.” Right up until she realised that behind that word was nothing but cold cruelty. Thankfully, they divorced before they had kids.
Now she’s on her third marriage, and the same thing’s happening—all those sweet words, that same naive hope that if she says “Mum,” the woman will melt and become family.
But it doesn’t work.
I know what I’m talking about. I’ve got a mother-in-law too. And we don’t just get along—we genuinely respect each other. We talk properly, we laugh, we pick strawberries together or chat about telly. But we call each other by our first names. And it doesn’t stop us from being closer than some blood relatives.
Because “Mum” isn’t just a title you throw around for convenience. It’s like a medal—you’ve got to earn it. You can’t buy it with a smile or a bit of small talk. A real mum isn’t someone who walked into your life with your husband. She’s the one who stays—for good.
Yes, sometimes a mother-in-law does become closer than your 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 always ask myself the same question: Is that love? Or just pretending out of habit?
