Calling Her ‘Mom’: The Distance Between Us

“Can you pass the mashed potatoes, Linda?” My voice is steady as I reach across the Thanksgiving table, but all eyes flick to me. Jake’s hand pauses mid-carve, and his mother’s mouth tightens, just a little, before she slides the dish my way.

Jake’s sister, Megan, clears her throat. “You mean ‘Mom,’ right?” she teases, but her tone is sharp as the carving knife glinting in Jake’s grip. There’s a hush. My own mother’s eyes flicker in my memory: kind, worn, irreplaceable.

I force a smile. “Thank you, Linda.”

After, as we load the dishwasher in the echoing kitchen, Linda says, “You know, you can call me ‘Mom,’ if you want.” She’s gentle, but I hear the disappointment behind the offer—behind the expectation. It’s the same every holiday, every birthday, every Sunday dinner since Jake and I married three years ago. I nod, busying my hands with soap and plates, but say nothing.

You see, for me, the word ‘Mom’ is sacred. It belongs to the woman who sat up with me through childhood fevers, who worked double shifts at the hospital to put me through college, who still calls every Sunday morning just to say she loves me. Her name is Carol. And even though she lives a thousand miles away now, she’s still the center of my world. There’s only one Mom.

But in Jake’s family, things are different. His sisters call Linda ‘Mom’ with an easy, casual affection they expect me to mimic. Jake’s father, Frank, calls me ‘daughter’ and pats my hand like everything is settled and simple. But it isn’t. I am not their daughter, and Linda is not my mother.

My friends say, “It’s just a word. Why not make her happy?”

But it’s not just a word. It’s a history, a bond, a loyalty I can’t fake. Still, every gathering, every phone call, Linda waits. I see it in her eyes—the wish that I’d just say it, just once. And every time I don’t, I feel the gap between us widen, a silent chasm across the dinner table.

One night, after a tense family barbecue—Megan had made another joke about my stubbornness, and I’d escaped to the bathroom, blinking back tears—Jake found me sitting on the tub edge, knees drawn up.

“Why can’t you just call her ‘Mom’?” he asked. Not angry—just tired.

I looked up at him, feeling small and exposed. “Because she isn’t. Because I only have one mother, Jake. And I can’t pretend otherwise just to make things easier.”

He knelt in front of me, taking my hands. “She feels like you’re keeping her at arm’s length. Like you don’t want to be part of the family.”

I shook my head. “I do. But on my terms. Isn’t that enough?”

He sighed, resting his forehead against my knee. Neither of us had the answer.

The next week, Linda invited me out for coffee. Just the two of us. I almost didn’t go, but guilt—and curiosity—pushed me out the door. We sat in a quiet corner of a Starbucks, awkwardly stirring our drinks.

She was the first to speak. “I know I’m not your mother. I don’t want to take her place.”

Surprise flickered through me. “I know. I just… I can’t say it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

She nodded, looking down at her latte, hands clasped tight. “It hurts. I won’t lie. But I want to have a relationship with you, whatever you’re comfortable with.”

We sat in silence for a while. Then she told me about her own mother-in-law, how she’d never called her ‘Mom’ either, how it had been a sore spot for years. “I guess I hoped things would be different for us.”

I reached across the table, touching her hand. “I care about you, Linda. I do. I just need time.”

She squeezed my fingers. “That’s all I ask.”

After that, things thawed. A little. Megan still made her jokes, and Jake’s family still called me stubborn behind my back. But Linda and I found a rhythm: cooking together, sharing recipes, talking about books. I called her Linda, she called me by my name, and the world didn’t end.

Sometimes, I caught her looking at me, a question in her eyes. But she never asked again. And I started to see her not just as Jake’s mother, but as her own person. Someone who’d lost, and hoped, and tried, just like me.

Last Christmas, as I watched Linda playing with our newborn daughter, I felt something shift. Maybe it wasn’t love, not yet. But it was something like respect. Maybe, one day, it would be enough.

Now, as I sit here, writing this in the quiet of a sleeping house, I wonder: is it better to be honest, even if it hurts those we care about? Or should we sacrifice a piece of ourselves to make others happy? Would you?