Wordfather had always shared a strong bond with his mother, and whenever the subject of parenting came up, I would hear the same sentence: “I’ll just check with my mother.” He would return with a list of advice, delivered as if it were carved in stone: “My mother says we should do this and that.” But I had a rebellious nature. I felt a deep need to find my own way in motherhood, even if that meant swimming against the current. So while he followed his mother’s words, I chose my own path.
Every Sunday, it was already set in the agenda: dinner at my mother-in-law’s. It felt as though I was playing a role in a family performing a carefully rehearsed play. Everything appeared fine on the surface, but underneath, there was so much left unsaid. No one really spoke about what was going on; everything was quietly swept under the rug. At times, that made it hard for me to breathe in that environment.
My sister-in-law and I never truly connected. She was so different from me—more reserved, more contained—while I longed for openness and freedom. Those Sundays began to wear me down. I found myself craving something else: time with my own family, or simply a day to myself. A day without obligations. A day to just be.
I worked two days a week, and on those days my sister-in-law would take care of Professor Son. What seemed convenient at first quickly led to tension. We clashed often—perhaps because we simply didn’t understand each other well enough. The strain at home grew heavier, especially since we were still living in a flat close to my mother-in-law’s house at the time. She could literally see whether our lights were on when we got home from work, and the phone would ring almost immediately. There were moments when I would say, “Let’s just keep the lights off—I need some peace.” And yet, at the same time, I felt guilty. Because I understood her too. She was alone after the death of her husband, and that loneliness had forged an unbreakable bond between Wordfather and his mother.
Wordfather had lost his father at a young age—a loss that cut deeply and left scars that would never fully heal. At fifteen, he was pushed into a role he had never chosen: the man of the house, the protector of his mother and sister. That loss bound them together in an intense way, their connection becoming a chain of loyalty and mutual dependence. He took on responsibility not just as a son, but almost as a replacement father figure—something that made sense, given the circumstances. But the role he had taken on back then continued to follow him, even as he began a family of his own.
I could see it—how deeply rooted that bond was. How it had carried them through difficult times. It was admirable, that loyalty and devotion. But it also created an invisible distance between us. I truly wanted to be a good daughter-in-law, but it often felt as though my own boundaries were being crossed. There was always a third presence in our marriage—his mother—like a shadow lingering just beneath the surface.
Instead of building our relationship as partners, I was often pushed aside for the dynamic that already existed between him, his mother, and his sister. I found myself caught between wanting to support him in his loss and needing to build a life and family of my own. It became a constant struggle to find space for myself—to be seen, to be heard—in a relationship shaped so strongly by his past and his unbreakable connection to his family.
That feeling of being left out, of never truly belonging in my partner’s world, became painfully clear during outings with his family. These were never small gatherings—they were full-scale family events, with all the aunts, uncles, cousins, and extended relatives present. Every outing felt like a performance, a stage where everyone had a fixed role to play.
While I had hoped we would attend these occasions as partners, something entirely different would happen. Instead of walking beside Wordfather, I would see his mother immediately take her place at his side. Together, they approached the family—she as the matriarch, he as her devoted son. And me? I followed behind, the children in my hands, like an extra in a play where I would never have a leading role.
His sister always seemed to thrive in that environment. Confident, almost energised by it. Together with her husband, they formed a duo that set the tone—often with subtle jabs and sharp-edged jokes that made me shrink with discomfort. Every remark, however small, cut through me, while I tried desperately to hold on to my dignity.
Whenever I glanced at Wordfather, searching for some kind of support, the response was always the same: “Stop whining.” It was as if my feelings didn’t matter—as if I simply had to accept that this was how things were.
Meanwhile, Wordfather seemed to move effortlessly through it all, feeding off the attention around him. He socialised with everyone, laughed at every joke—whether it was at my expense or not. My role, it seemed, was reduced to caring for the children, without any real space or voice of my own.
It would last an entire evening, sometimes even a full weekend, during which I felt myself drifting further away—not just from his family, but from him as well. While he reconnected with his past and strengthened his family ties, I was left behind, caught in a growing sense of isolation and invisibility. ❤️
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