In-laws.
The word alone can make a grown adult flinch like they just heard the dentist say “this might pinch a little.”
They are the bonus level you didn’t ask to unlock when you got married. You spent months (or years) convincing one person that you’re not a complete disaster, and then, boom, here come four to twelve additional judges with lifetime appointments and strong opinions about how much salt should go in soup.
There are two main categories of in-law experiences:
The “I hit the jackpot” version
Your partner’s parents treat you like the prodigal child they always wanted. They laugh at your jokes even when they’re not funny. They text you memes. They brag about you to their friends. You start wondering if you accidentally married into a cult that worships you. Enjoy it. This is rare and statistically unlikely. Savor it like the last slice of good pizza.
The “I’m being stress-tested for sainthood” version
Every visit feels like an audition you didn’t prepare for.
“So… you’re still in that little job?”
“Back in my day we didn’t need all these fancy allergies.”
“Your mother and I were just saying…” (spoiler: whatever follows is not a compliment).
You smile so hard your face muscles file a complaint with HR. You learn to perfect the art of nodding while mentally reciting the periodic table to stay calm.
And then there are the siblings-in-law. They knew your spouse when they had braces and a bowl cut. They have photographic evidence. They will use it. They also have an unspoken ranking of who your spouse loved most growing up, and congratulations, you’re now in direct competition with a golden retriever that died in 2009.
The wild part? Most in-laws aren’t trying to be difficult. They’re just terrified of losing the person they’ve loved since that person was a sticky, screaming toddler. You’re the variable in their equation, the new character in a story they’ve been writing for thirty years. Of course they’re side-eyeing you. You’re the plot twist.
The ones who eventually come around usually do it in tiny, almost invisible ways:
Your mother-in-law starts buying the brand of coffee you like.
Your father-in-law asks your opinion about something that isn’t the correct way to load a dishwasher.
Your brother-in-law stops calling you “dude” and starts using your actual name.
That’s in-law love. It’s quiet. It’s slow. It’s weirdly earned, like leveling up in a game that doesn’t give you points or tell you the rules.
So here’s to the in-laws.
May your mother-in-law’s passive aggression stay mild,
your father-in-law’s stories stay under twelve minutes,
and your siblings-in-law eventually admit, grudgingly, that you’re… fine.
(High praise. Take it and run.)
