The Mother-in-Law Who Never Looked My Way

You never really saw me.

Not beyond the introductions,

not past the polite smiles

and the practiced small talk.

You didn’t ask where I came from,

what I dreamt of,

what made me laugh when I was five.

You never wondered what your son saw in me,

because you never cared to know.

You kept your distance—

and called it boundaries.

Held your approval close

like a gift you forgot to wrap.

I tried,

more than once,

to reach past your walls.

I brought kindness like offerings,

small tokens—

a hand with the dishes,

a quiet compliment,

the kind of effort that comes from hope.

But the door stayed closed.

Locked, really.

I stood on the porch of your love

and knocked until my knuckles bruised.

And still—

you never came to the door.

I’ve watched you

smile with ease at others.

I’ve seen how some grandkids

get the best of you,

while mine gets the calendar invite version—

twice a year,

in a crowd,

with a smile that never quite lands.

He notices, you know.

Children always do.

They know when love is lopsided.

They feel the cold in a room full of sunshine.

And I’m left wondering

why I wasn’t enough

to warm you up.

Maybe it’s me.

Maybe it’s not.

But either way,

I’ve grieved a mother I never had,

a relationship I imagined

but never got to live.

And still—

I forgive you.

Not because you asked,

but because I refuse to carry the bitterness

into the next generation.

One day,

when I am the mother-in-law,

I will do it differently.

I will call just to say hello.

I will learn her coffee order,

remember her birthday,

show up to love—not to judge.

I will love her child

by loving her too.

Because that’s what family should feel like—

not a battlefield,

not a cold shoulder,

but a welcome mat.

You may never understand

what you’ve missed.

The softness you could’ve had.

The bond we could’ve built.

The joy of being chosen,

not just by your son,

but by me,

over and over.

You never saw me.