The Late Awakening of a MotherinLaw
When everyone else had gone, my motherinlaw finally remembered usonly when it was too late.
It has been more than a decade since I met Louis. I married him at twentyfive. He isnt an only child; he has two older brothers, both wellsettled with careers, homes and familiesa pictureperfect trio, as they say. Their mother, Geneviève Lefèvre, is a hardheaded woman who never hides behind anyone. She raised the three boys on her own, never yielding.
From the moment we became engaged, I sensed a special hostility from her toward me. Nothing was said outright, but her silence at dinner, the sideways glances, the accidental oversights all spoke volumes. I pretended not to notice. Perhaps I hadnt met her expectations, or maybe she simply could not let go of her youngest.
Louis was her anchor. When the older sons moved out, he stayed to help with errands, medical appointments, paperwork. Then I arrived, and everything changed.
I tried everything to win her over: slowcooked meals, invitations to celebrations, carefully chosen gifts. I even attempted to call her mom, but the word got stuck in my throat. She kept a chilly distance, and I felt like an outsider in that family.
When our son Gabriel was born, Geneviève showed up more oftena brief respite. Yet, as the older brothers began presenting her with their own grandchildren, our child became invisible. She spent Christmases at their houses, called them weekly, and left us out of the loop. The worst part? She consistently forgot my birthday unless Louis reminded her. No card, no message. I suffered, then accepted the truth: not everyone is fortunate enough to have two mothers.
Years slipped by, modest yet respectable. Our daughter Élodie arrived. Louis worked, I cared for the children, and my motherinlaw lingered on the edge of our livesalways at a distance, visiting only rarely. We made no effort to force anything.
Last year her husband passed away. The loss shattered her. Doctors prescribed antidepressants and labeled her with senile depression. The elder brothers came once, dropped off groceries, and then disappeared. Louis and I visited her Paris flatless often than them, but more than they did.
Then, in midDecember, she invited us for New Years Eve. I need you, she whispered. I accepted; you dont abandon someone who is vulnerable.
I was preparing foie gras and arranging the Yule log while she sighed on the sofa. Will François and Mathieu come? I asked. She shrugged. Whats the point?
Midnight was approaching when she suddenly sat up. Sit down. I have a proposal, she said, her voice trembling. I asked my other daughtersinlaw to take me in; they refused. So move in here. In return, Ill bequeath the apartment to you.
The shock hit hard. Years of indifference, and now, because the others had left her, she turned to me? As if a threeroom Parisian flat could erase two decades of coldness?
Louis promised to think it over. In the car, I cracked, not with screams but with a strained voice: Listen, Im no saint. I wont live with the woman who treated me like a ghost, who never bothered to see her grandchildrens school plays. This sudden affection is just fear of dying alone. Why should we pay with our lives for the love she denied us?
Its my mother he murmured.
A mother is a comfort, not a selector of children. She excluded us from her family story, now turning to her favorites.
He fell silent. I recognized his inner conflict, but he understood me.
We never returned to Rue de Rivoli. A few cold calls later, she blamed us for her disappointment. I think: what right does she have to expect a smile bought with square meters?
No. Dignity isnt for sale. If youre nothing on bright days, dont become a shield against the shadows.
It isnt revengejust the painful lesson of choosing those who truly choose you.
