When I got married, I thought life would be simple.
My husband is the youngest of six brothers, so I naively believed that if we just worked hard, we could live quietly and peacefully on our own.
I knew my mother-in-law had a fiery, almost masculine personality and had frequent conflicts with my sisters-in-law, but I assumed I would be spared.
Then, two months before our first daughter was born, I got a phone call.
“I’m on my way to your house,” she said.
It was a peaceful weekend evening. My husband and I were lounging on the sofa, but after that call, we scrambled in a panic, cleaning the apartment like we were preparing for war.
That night marked the beginning of a new chapter: living with my mother-in-law.
Our newlywed life, already tense, grew more complicated.
My mother-in-law appeared stern, intimidating—her speech was brusque, almost like an old man’s. But as time passed, I discovered a deeply loving side to her.
My husband had studied architecture and worked in design.
It was the early 1990s, and back then, architectural plans were drawn with large T-squares by hand.
He worked long hours, often including weekends and holidays.
Coming home to a house where someone waited for him—where the lights were on and a warm voice greeted him—meant the world to him.
But the issue arose on the days he was actually home.
I longed to catch up with him, to share conversations we’d postponed all week.
But my mother-in-law would quickly interrupt:
“He’s tired. Don’t talk to him. Let him rest.”
I’d quietly retreat to the bedroom, feeling awkward and unwanted.
Eventually, I’d doze off—and when I woke and stepped out into the living room, I’d see them chatting away happily.
Even when sharing fruit or snacks, she’d instinctively grab the last piece and hand it to him.
Small moments like these left me feeling invisible—pushed aside in my own home.
Do you understand that subtle ache?
That confusing mix of hurt and resentment that you can’t quite put into words?
Thankfully, those moments only happened a few days each month.
Most of the time, I managed to brush it off.
At work, I often brought lunch from home. We had many women in the office, so it was common practice.
Each morning, my mother-in-law would wake up early to pack my lunch.
Steamed rice with a fried egg on top—very reminiscent of a 1970s-style lunchbox.
If I ever said it was delicious, she would proudly make the same side dishes for weeks.
It wasn’t gourmet, but it was heartfelt.
Looking back, I realize I was able to continue working even after my daughter was born because she was there.
Despite the discomfort, despite the moments of emotional distance,
I am still grateful to her—for her presence, her help, and her sacrifice.
We were able to move out of a cold, half-basement apartment and slowly build a more stable life.
That would have been impossible without her support.
She didn’t always show it gently, but her love was there.
Living together wasn’t easy, but it taught me lessons about humility, patience, and what family truly means.
And even now, years later, I carry with me a quiet, enduring gratitude.
Only in her absence did I come to understand how much I had to thank her for.
On the other hands…
Looking back, there were many moments that were difficult, confusing, and emotionally complicated.
But above all, what hurt the most was the shift I saw in my husband. He had once shared housework with me, but after my mother-in-law moved in and voiced her disapproval, he stepped back completely. That sudden change—feeling alone in what used to be shared—left a deeper mark than I expected.
Still, her presence in our home brought lessons I never would have learned otherwise.
In my next post, I hope to share more honestly about what it was like living with a strong, sometimes overwhelming, but deeply unforgettable woman—and offer a glimpse into what Korean mothers-in-law were like in our generation.
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