Story by Wallflower Writing
I wanted to hate her because I thought that I was supposed to.
Because the stigma society lays out is so big. Because I wasn’t married when I got pregnant by her son unexpectedly.
Because I was that rebel woman, struck down by a hard life, almost too independent and broken to be loved, and that her son so fiercely loved regardless.
Because someday, she would become my mother-in-law.
I wanted to hate her because everything about the way it should have gone didn’t go as planned. I wanted to hate her because the whole mom thing failed with me growing up, why would I want one now?
I wanted to hate her because I knew I would never make those crushed candy cane cookies as good as her, let alone because I’ll never be a baker.
I wanted to hate her because she gave me mammoth-sized shoes to fill and I thought I couldn’t fill them without stepping on her toes.
By the time we were ready to give birth, my desire to fill her shoes shifted to a desire to walk beside her.
And all those big scary stigmas the world shaped and told me all about faded away, and I could see her there for all she was, just like me – a mother.
A mother. In all her relatable, vast, and humorous glory.
A mother you could never hate, not even a smidge, a speck, or an ounce – not even a little. Because she is the one who raised the man who helps me raise my own children.
A mother who just wants to love her big kid just as much as I love my little one. A mother who loves regardless of where you’re going or where you come from.
A mother you can drink-double with, laugh with, and learn from. A mother with the best cooking and honestly, the best cookies.
A mother-in-law; one who just wants to love her big kid, just as much as I love my little one.
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