The Mother-in-Law

by Sally Hepworth

Someone once told me that you have two families in your life—the one you are born into and the one you choose. But that’s not entirely true, is it? Yes, you may get to choose your partner, but you don’t, for instance, choose your children. You don’t choose your brothers- or sisters-in-law, you don’t choose your partner’s spinster aunt with the drinking problem or cousin with the revolving door of girlfriends who don’t speak English. More importantly, you don’t choose your mother-in-law. The cackling mercenaries of fate determine it all.

Sara is the only one who adores her mother-in-law, and that’s because Marg looks after Sara’s children two days a week, while also doing the family’s laundry, ironing and preparing homemade meals for the freezer. (Marg is what we call a mother-in-law unicorn.)

If you ask me, everyone is a little too interested in their children’s happiness. Ask anyone what they wish for their kids and they’ll all say they want them to be happy. Happy! Not empathetic contributing members of society. Not humble, wise and tolerant. Not strong in the face of adversity or grateful in the face of misfortune. I, on the other hand, have always wanted hardship for my kids. Real, honest hardship. Challenges big enough to make them empathetic and wise.

Unlike Diana, Nettie comes to my place because “you don’t want to be strapping all those kids in the car to come to my place.” (Hallelujah.) She nearly always arrives with treats for the kids (and asks me if it’s okay before handing them over), coffee for me, and a ready-to-eat meal for Ollie and me to eat that evening. Sometimes she takes the kids out to give me a break, other days, like today, we amble around together, doing errands and visiting the park.

My heart bleeds for Nettie. Even without everything else going on … I still remember the rawness of losing my mother like it was yesterday. It occurs to me that Nettie and I have this in common now. She is older than I was when Mum died, obviously, but I doubt there is a loss in the universe more profound than a daughter losing her mother.

I am not ready for normal yet. Tom is dead. I don’t care about your daughter-in-law or your fight with your husband or the funny story about your bladder-control issues and the dog park. I don’t care about any of it. Because Tom’s not here. I miss the feel of him. Even a week ago, when Tom was barely alive, I could still reach out and touch him.

The doorbell rings. I ignore it. This couch feels like a life raft; the outside world is shark-infested waters. I grab the throw rug and pull it around my shoulders, hoping that sleep comes and carries me through until evening, when I can finally change into my pajamas and slide into the comforting blackness of evening. I might have some toast and a cup of tea, and put something on the television to take the edge off the silence as I rattle about in this big old place. Sometimes, at night, I pretend that Tom is still here.

Those moments we shared in the wee hours of the morning feel so unimaginably luxurious now, those stolen moments, both of us against the world. “I’ll be right there, my love,” I whisper into the empty house. “You’ll feel better in a moment.” The doorbell rings again. “You get it, Tom,” I whisper, and close my eyes.

Diana stares out the passenger window of my car, trance-like. She’s wearing her normal “uniform,” navy slacks, white blouse, pearls—but her clothes look rumpled, like she wore them yesterday and left them on the floor before putting them on again. She’s also wearing black sneakers instead of nude pumps or ballet flats, and her hair is flat on one side (presumably the side she slept on) and she hasn’t bothered to fluff it up. She hasn’t said a word since she got in, not even to comment on the biscuit crumbs that I wiped off the seat before she sat down.

They say little boys love their mothers, and I think there is something to it. Little girls love their mothers, too, of course, but a little boy’s love for his mother is pure, untainted. Boys see their mothers in the most primal way, a protector, devotee, a disciple. Sons bask in their mothers’ love rather than questioning it or testing it.

Sons see the best parts of you, but daughters really see you. They see your flaws and your weaknesses. They see everything they don’t want to be. They see you for exactly who you are … and they hate you for it.

Who are we after we’re gone? I wonder. It’s a good question to ponder. Most people can’t come up with an answer right away. They frown, consider it for a minute. Maybe even sleep on it. Then the answers start to come. We’re our children. Our grandchildren. Our great-grandchildren. We’re all the people who will go on to live, because we lived. We are our wisdom, our intellect, our beauty, filtered through generations, continuing to spill into the world and make a difference.

I could have written more, but in the end, there’s really only two pieces of wisdom worth leaving behind. I worked hard for everything I ever cared about. And nothing I ever cared about cost a single cent.