My Mother-in-Law Insisted I Call Her ‘Mum’, So I Took the Time to Explain the Difference

Margaret, must I keep calling you Mrs. Whitaker? I asked, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. Explain the difference, please.

Emily, why do you keep shouting Mrs. Whitaker, Mrs. Whitaker as if we were at a parliamentary meeting and not at our family table? It grates on my ears, honestly, the motherinlaw whispered, the crumbs of her anniversary cake still clinging to her lips, and deliberately set her tea cup aside.

A heavy silence settled over the dining room. The guestsa sisterinlaw from York, her teenage niece, and the neighbour who had been invited for the sake of numbersstood frozen, waiting for the next move. Andrew, Emilys husband, immediately buried his face in a bowl of potato salad, pretending the ingredients fascinated him. Thats his usual tactic when a storm is about to break: he buries his head in the sand, leaving the women to wrestle with their oldwoman affairs alone.

Emily slowly laid down her fork, dabbed her lips with a napkin, and fixed her gaze on Margaret. The matriarch sat at the head of the table, upright as a flagpole in her finest sequin dress, radiating an expectation of obedience.

Mrs. Whitaker, I address you by name and title out of respect. Its polite and suits our relationship, Emily said calmly, trying to keep her voice even.

What relationship? Margaret snapped. Were one family now! I gave you a son, my own blood. Im a second mother to you. Yet you call me you, as if I were a stranger. Thats not how we do things. Look at Vicky, my sisters daughterinlawshe called me mum at her wedding and theyve been inseparable ever since. And you keep this distance. Its pride, Emily, and its not right.

My mother is a single person, Margaret, and her name is Diane Anderson, Emily replied firmly. I cant have another mother; biologically and morally thats impossible. You are my husbands mother. I respect and value you, but I will not call you mum. Im sorry if that hurts you, but I cannot be twofaced.

Margaret clutched her chest theatrically, rolled her eyes, and scanned the table for allies.

You heard that? Twofaced! Am I the hypocrite here? I bake pies, give advice, love her with all my heart, and she turns her nose up! Andrew, say something! Youre hurting your own mother in his own house!

Andrew sputtered, flushed, and forced out, Emily, honestly it would please her. Its just a word. Its a tradition, thats all.

Emily stared at him for a long beat. In that look were fatigue from his mothers endless demands, disappointment in his spinelessness, and a warning that this time she would not yield.

For me its not just a word, Andrew. Mum is a sacred concept. Its the person who carried me, gave birth, stayed up nights when I was ill, and loves me unconditionally. Margaret is a wonderful lady, but she is not my mother. Lets drop this subject and not ruin the celebration. Who wants more cake?

The dinner was irrevocably ruined. The guests slipped away quickly, the tension thick in the air. Margaret, seeing them out the hallway, whispered loudly to the neighbour, These modern daughtersinlaw have lost all sense of gratitude.

Emily washed dishes in the kitchen, scrubbing plates with a fierce intensity. At thirty, she was a successful architectselfsufficient and independentbut in Margarets presence she sometimes felt like a guilty schoolgirl. Margaret wielded passive aggression like a weapon; she never shouted, but her concern stung as if it were a slap.

The next morning Emily hoped the incident was behind them, but she had underestimated her motherinlaw. It was only the beginning of the siege.

Saturday dawned, and Emily and Andrew planned to sleep in after a grueling workweek. A persistent knock rang at the front door, the kind that refuses to let go.

Standing on the threshold was Margaret, wheeling a massive rolling suitcase.

Sleeping? she chirped, rolling straight into the hallway without waiting for an invitation. I was at the market, bought fresh cottage cheese, thought Id swing by the kids and make some scones. I know youre busy, Emilyyour career, feeding the household, you never have a moment.

Emily, still in a rumpled pajama and hair in disarray, inhaled deeply.

Good morning, Margaret. Were not hungry, and we had plans for the morning.

What plans could be more important than a hot breakfast from mum? Margaret shouted, already rummaging through the cupboards, pots clanging. Andrew! Get up, dear! Mums here!

Over the breakfast table, while genuinely delicious scones disappeared, Andrew smiled blissfully, and Margaret launched her second barrage.

See, Emily? Ive risen at six, trudged to the market, lugged this suitcase. My back aches, my legs protest, yet Im here. Would any stranger do that? Only a mother would. So why is it so hard for you to call me mum? Is your tongue stuck?

Emily set down her fork.

Thank you for the breakfast, Margaret, but care isnt bought with scones. The title mum isnt earned by delivering cottage cheese.

What, then, earns it? Margaret narrowed her eyes. Because the hospital staff handed me you? I took Andrew in. Were family now. I want warmth, a proper family vibe. Youre cold as a fish. Yesterday I called Diane, your mother, to complain.

Emilys muscles tightened.

You called my mother? Why?

To tell her how you behave. I thought shed influence you. She said, Emily, youre an adult, you decide yourself. Thats parenting for youlenient.

Ill ask you not to bother my mother with your complaints, Emily said, voice icy. She has high blood pressure; she cant be stressed.

And I have no pressure? My heart doesnt hurt? Im here for you with all my heart! Im trying!

Andrew leapt in, Mum, lets not start. Emily is grateful, really. She just needs time to adjust.

Three years already! If you dont want things done nicely, fine. Ill keep coming, helping, until you understand who wishes you well.

From that day Margarets visits became routine. She would pop in maternalstyle to check if Andrews shirts were clean, rearrange pots for convenience, critique curtains, wall colour, even the brand of washing powder, always adding, A mum never gives bad advice.

Emily endured. She remained polite but drew boundaries wherever she could. She refused to hand over a spare key (despite Margarets request for a fireescape copy), barred her from financial matters, and kept her apartment locked. Yet the tension mounted.

The climax arrived a month later, in November. Emily fell gravely illan aggressive flu drove her temperature to thirtynine, her body a mass of aches and helplessness. Andrew, unfortunately, was on a business trip in Manchester and wouldnt be back until Friday.

Emily lay in bed, drifting between fevered dreams. She wanted to call her own mother, but Diane was in the hospital with a hypertensive crisis, and Emily didnt want to add to her worry, so she claimed it was just a cold.

Wednesday afternoon a key turned in the lock. Andrew, before leaving, had left a spare set for his mother, should she need to water the plants if his trip ran long. Emily had completely forgotten about it.

The hallway erupted with the clatter of bags and Margarets booming voice: Anyone alive in there? Andrew called, said youre a wreck. Im here to save the day.

Emily, eyes barely open, rasped, Margaret dont its contagious

Margaret stormed into the bedroom still dressed in her coat, eyes scanning the messhalfempty tea mugs, pill packets, crumpled tissues. The room felt stifling.

What a scene! Even a woodcutter would have shivered, she declared. And the mess, the chaos! Even when youre sick you should be dignified, Emily.

She flung open the window; a gust of icy November air slammed into Emilys flushed face.

Close it, please Im shivering, Emily whispered, pulling the blanket tighter.

Fresh air drives out germs. Youll survive. Ive brought broth. Get up, go to the kitchen. Staying in bed is a pigsty.

I cant stand, Emily croaked.

Dont make excuses. Movement is life. Stand, Im not dragging this luggage all the way here for nothing.

Margaret rattled dishes in the kitchen as Emily staggered to the bathroom, then the kitchen, desperate for a cup of tea.

Instead of tea, Margaret ripped open her bags and began an inspection of the fridge.

Lord, a mouses nest! Sausages gone soft, yoghurts past date What did you feed Andrew before he left? Poor lad, with his gastritis, could have choked.

Margaret, Im ill. Just water, please?

Water? Fetch it yourself, youre not broken. Look at this stovegrease on the handles. While youre sick Ill give the whole place a deep clean. Cant have guests seeing this shambles.

She began slamming pots, moving chairs, wiping cabinets with a harsh chemical that mixed with the scent of illness, making Emilys stomach churn.

Please, stop the cleaning I need peace Go away

Thats it! Im a mother here, caring, helping! You push me away? I havent even checked my own blood pressure, and Im already scrubbing. You should be grateful.

Thank you, Emily whispered, but I need medicine, not a mop. Did you buy what Andrew asked for?

Oh dear, the list I forgot. But I bought beetroot! Ill make borscht. Its the best remedy. You peel the veg, Ill simmer the broth. Together well manage.

Emily stared at her, feverblinded, You want me, running around with a temperature of thirtynine, cleaning beetroot?

Its no big deal. Hands work, work heals, Margaret replied.

At that moment Emilys coat pocket buzzed. It was her mother, Diane, calling.

Emily, love, how are you? Your voice sounds awful. Ive just been discharged, cant sit still while youre ill. Im on my way to your flat now.

Five minutes later Diane Anderson entered, pale but determined, after a brief hospital stay.

Mum Emily sobbed, relief flooding her.

Diane, ignoring Margaret, rushed to her daughterinlaw, pressed a cool hand to her forehead, gasped, Youre burning up! Lets get you to bed, call an ambulance if needed.

She swiftly helped Emily back to the bed, tucked her in, handed a damp cloth for the forehead, and produced the prescribed tablets from a bag shed grabbed on the way, plus a flask of cranberry juice and a tin of chicken broth.

Margaret lingered in the doorway, lips pressed together.

Im helping too, you know. Ive started the cleaning, will make the borscht

Diane turned, voice soft but steelstrong, Margaret, look at Emily. She needs quiet and rest, not a kitchen overhaul. She needs medicine, not your maternal brigade.

Margaret huffed, I was only trying to help, like a mother would!

Help is not forcing someone to stand when theyre down, Diane replied. Your mum is a title earned by love, not by hauling beetroot.

Emily, steadier after the fever reducer and her mothers care, lifted her head. Anger that had built for months surged outward.

Margaret, come here, please, she said loudly.

The matriarch raised an eyebrow, then approached.

Listen up. For six months youve demanded I call you mum. Youve manipulated, complained, and today you showed why Ill never do it.

What? I brought food, I came to

Because mum isnt groceries or a clean kitchen, Emily cut in. Look at my own mother. She barely stood, but she came with water, a blanket, and a smile. She never demanded I wash beetroot while I was dying. She loves without strings attached. You, Margaret, came to assert control, to play the hero in my kitchen, to prove youre the saintly mother. Thats not motherhood. Thats a role you chose, not one earned.

Silence fell, only Margarets shallow breathing filling the room. Her confidence cracked, color draining from her cheeks.

I I just wanted to cheer you up a little a bit of tough love she muttered, voice small.

Leave, Margaret, Emily said, exhausted but resolute. Take your beetroot and your keys. Put the spare back on the hall table. Do not come without an invitation. I respect you as Andrews mother, but in my home and my heart the place of mum belongs to the woman who holds me when Im weak. Thats my mother, Diane.

Margaret stared at Diane, who was gently dabbing Emilys forehead, a scene of pure, unpretentious love. Shame flooded Margarets face, perhaps mingled with jealousy. She realized she had lost, not in argument, but in the very essence of what a mother truly is.

She slipped out, the click of the keys echoing, and the front door slammed shut.

Diane sighed, readjusted the pillow, and whispered, There, there, love. Rest now.

Emily drifted into sleep, dreaming of a small child being carried across a windswept field by a mothers arms.

Andrew returned on Friday. The flat smelled of chicken broth and medicine. Emily was on the mend, still weak but improving. Diane headed home, satisfied that her son was back and keeping watch.

That evening, over tea, Andrew asked cautiously, Mum called she cried. She said Id thrown her out. What happened?

Emily met his eyes, calm now, I didnt throw anyone out. I simply set things straight. When I was truly ill, your mum wanted me to clean beetroot. My own mum brought medicine. Thats the difference. Ill call Margaret Mrs. Whitaker, and thats final.

Andrew fell silent, swirling his cup. Shes a hard person, I get that. She loves me.

She loves you, not me. I dont owe her that title. Respect and distance are enough. Weve taken the spare keys back, no more surprise visits. If she wants to come, shell call first. And the call me mum debate is closed for good.

He pulled Emily into a gentle hug. Im sorry I wasnt there. I should have defended you. You have a mother, and Margaret she can just be a grandmother to any future kids, as long as she stops making us clean potatoes at three.

Emily laughed, the first genuine laugh in days.

Six months later, relations with Margaret were cool but civil. She only appeared when invited, bringing her famous pies, sitting properly at the table, chatting about weather and the garden.

At a family gathering, the same aunt from York quipped, Emily, why do you still call your motherinlaw by name and title? Shes not your mum, is she?

Margaret straightened, looked at Emily, then at the aunt, and said firmly, Im not laying claim. Emilys wonderful mother is Diane Anderson. Im Margaret Whitaker. We each have our role, and theres no need to mix them up. Respect is what matters, isnt it, Catherine?

Emily smiled warmly, Exactly, Margaret. Absolutely.

In that moment, calling her motherinlaw by name and title felt less like a battle and more like a truce. Honesty had become the foundation of their uneasy peace. The word mum was too precious to be tossed around for propriety; it belongs only to those who love with true, selfless devotion.