Parents disliked my hubby. After learning we were getting married, my mom told me not to call her. They had to talk to my spouse after we had kids.
With a house, kids, and money, they adjusted to him. Later, I discovered my mom is like him. My hubby is Rajan.
He’s silent, stubborn, and blunt. Raised in a one-bedroom home with four siblings and a hospital laundry-working mother. After arriving from Egypt, my parents constructed everything from scratch—engineering degrees, green cards, a four-bedroom house in a lush suburb outside Minneapolis.
They wanted me to marry a “respectable.” Person with a master’s, mortgage, and preferably a last name my mom can pronounce without tripping. Rajan was none of those. No degree, no savings, just a languid, confident pace through life like it owed him nothing.
My dad spoke little. Yet my mom? My mom examined him like a rubbish drawer—unwanted items.
She didn’t scream when I proposed. She just said, “Don’t call me when you regret it.” Then she hung up. A year and a half passed without talking.
Rajan never criticized her. I was quite annoyed by that. I was mad.
Hurt. But when she reached out after I had Alina, he urged me to meet her halfway. “I know what it’s like not having a mom around,” he remarked.
Don’t let pride win.”
So we saw them again. By bit. Sunday meals.
Over mashed potatoes, awkward smiles. Mum would say, “Well, at least he knows how to grill,” or “It’s lucky he got you.”
I squeezed his hand under the table. He shrugged and refilled her tea.
We had Sami, our second child, once they calmed down. Not warm, but polite. Dad would ask Rajan about employment.
I remember my mom sending biryani “for the kids.” We shared Thanksgiving last year. I believed the frost melted. Until three months ago.
It began when my cousin Hadiya called. She knows family news even when she shouldn’t. Her voice sounded strangely low.
“I wasn’t going to say anything, but I think you should know… Your mom has been calling Aunt Nahla about you. About Rajan. About cash.”
How about money?
I requested. She warned Nahla she feared manipulation. Rajan is ‘using your income’ to grow his small business and ‘doesn’t contribute enough.’ She claimed to be helping you secretly.
Financially.”
I sat dumbfounded. Rajan and I split everything. Always did.
We never needed my parents’ money. When I approached my mom, she admitted it. “I’m your mother,” she said.
“I don’t want you to become me.”
Like her? “What are you discussing?” I requested. The unraveling began then.
After wiping her hands on a dish towel, she glanced at me like she was looking at someone else. We didn’t have early support from your father. I was.
My clinic side job? It paid the mortgage while he situated himself.”
My jaw fell. I always considered my dad the rock.
Provider. She always pretended to stay home because she could. She had to.
But you always made it feel like… Stopping, I blink. So why hide it? “Because I didn’t want you to repeat my mistake,” she answered bluntly.
So here you are. Married to a late starter with big goals who lets you carry the load. You’re me.”
“No,” I whispered.
“I’m not.”
I told Rajan everything at home. He didn’t shout. He was unfazed.
“I’ve always known she didn’t respect me,” he stated. I never expected you to lie about our lifestyle. Shoulda told her.”
That hurt.
I hadn’t lied entirely. I hadn’t corrected her assumptions either. I could have appreciated that she thought I was the earner, keeping things afloat.
I gained twisted leverage in our tenuous ceasefire. After that, I avoided her for weeks. Father’s Day followed.
While the kids were in the yard, my dad—who’s always been quieter and more watchful than my mom—pulled me aside. “I know things are tense,” he added, drinking tea. “Your mom isn’t mad at you.
She’s scared.”
Scared about what? “Forgottenness. Not being understood.” He sipped again.
“You know, Rajan reminds me of her.”
That surprised me. “What?”
Same pride. Similar slow build.
She hid it under expectation. He wears it openly.”
I blinked, remembering how Mom never sought for aid or talked about her struggles, even when we were broke. She continued.
Stoic. Stubborn. I knew someone like that.
Things escalated two weeks later when Rajan received the loan to open his second food truck. He shone. I was glad.
We announced it on Facebook. Mom called the next day. “You should be careful,” she murmured, anxious.
“Quick expansion can ruin a business.”
Lost it. “Can you please say you’re proud of him? Or happy for us?
She snapped, “I am happy.” “But someone must be realistic.”
“No,” I answered coldly. “Someone has to stop projecting their failures onto others’ joy.”
Silence. Line went dead.
No callback. Strange things happened the next week. Safiyya called me.
She worked with my mom at the clinic years ago. She got my number from a buddy. Though anxious, her voice was warm.
“I hope this isn’t too forward,” she added, “but your mom helped me once. Significantly. I never forgot.”
After Safiyya’s partner left her with a newborn and no employment, my mom secretly sent her rent money and said it came from a hospital help fund.
Never told anyone. “She said dignity was worth more than pity,” Safiyya remarked. I hung up, shocked.
The picture started to form then. My mother veiled her softness beneath steel. She didn’t want others to notice her sacrifices because they’d see her fragility.
She wanted no pity. Or praise. She craved control because she never had it.
And Rajan? He never mentioned how difficult building from scratch was. Never mentioned his spreadsheet-crying evenings or the time his truck was towed and he had to walk five miles home.
He continued going. Very similar. I was the intermediary between two people who spoke the same emotional language but didn’t confess it.
Called mom. Apologized. Not for opposing her.
