A Good Relationship With Your In-Laws Is Rarely About Love

Updated July 24, 2025 at 6:45 p.m.*

-Essay-

BERLIN — I first met her parents in their garden, at a dinner held in my honor. We laughed loudly and heartily. Her father proudly shared stories of the family’s political activism, protests at nuclear power plants. That’s when I saw where my relatively new partner, Evelyn, got her rationality, her determination — and her nose.

“They’re amazing,” I said afterward. “So sharp and welcoming. They’ll be great in-laws.”

She shrugged. Maybe because, even though she loves her family, she had made a very deliberate choice to move seven hours away from them.

She met my parents for the first time in Istanbul, where she was questioned for hours and then days, against a changing backdrop of small boats, huge museums and tiny tea glasses.

“They’re lovely,” she said afterward. “So funny and warm. They’ll make great in-laws.”

I shrugged. Because even though I love my family, I love them most when they’re at least two countries away.

“Evelyn is wonderful,” my mother said on the next phone call. “Absolutely perfect. Exactly the daughter-in-law I would have chosen.”

I shrugged again. Because even though I loved my new girlfriend, I had also loved all the previous ones — and yet today only one of them still responds to my messages.

It all started with minor irritations: Evelyn’s father drives in a way that could be described as either temperamental or downright aggressive. And he has to comment on the origin of every single license plate he sees.

“Ah, there are lots of Poles out again today.”

“Get out of my lane and back to the East, Dresden.”

I began to avoid getting in the car with him. Then I started to notice that her mother doesn’t care how many times she’s told the same story, or whether you even know any of the people in it: she’ll keep going anyway. And she practically has a meltdown if I put my feet up on the coffee table. She thinks a room is untidy if a single object is out of place. And there are never any chips in her house.

Dad jokes

Evelyn wasn’t spared from irritation either. “Your dad tells so many jokes,” she said after a visit to my parents. “I laugh to be polite, but after a while I’m not even sure if it’s real anymore. Does he think he has to be funny to be loved?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And have you ever noticed that all your mom’s stories follow the same script? She wins over someone difficult, who now thinks the world of her?”

“Yes,” I said.

The interrogations never really stopped

The interrogations that had begun in Istanbul never really stopped. Evelyn found my mother’s emotional intensity overwhelming. She didn’t know how to act anymore: like a daughter? A friend? A sister? A guest?

“I feel like I’m not giving her enough,” Evelyn said. “But I don’t even know what it is. Affection? Warmth?”

“Do you have the sense that no matter how much you love her, it’s never quite enough?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Exactly.”

“I know that feeling,” I said. It was exactly what had made me want to move far away.

Things came to a head during a holiday in Jerez, Spain. We’d rented a small apartment from my parents, really more of a large broom closet. The cramped space made every tiny tension between Evelyn and her in-laws feel even sharper. These were still people she wanted to impress. People she was still trying to understand.

A rift opens

My parents started going out more. Long walks, long museum visits, long shopping trips. A rift opened up — obvious to me, trained as I am in British subtext — but invisible to Evelyn. She kept suggesting things we could all do together, and my parents kept politely turning her down.

One evening, Evelyn had a headache and stayed behind in the apartment. I joined my parents at a square nearby. The conversation was gentle, as such talks always are in British families, where criticism lands so softly you barely know you’re being criticized.

I asked them about the tension I’d been sensing. And after some light coaxing — just an hour or two — they finally confessed: The problem was Evelyn.

“Have you noticed that she’s a bit, well, forward?” my mom asked.

“Yes,” I said, laughing. “She can be.”

“And that she always seems to know best?”

“Yes,” I said. “She does.”

My mum’s shoulders sagged. “I feel like I’m not allowed to make decisions anymore.”

“You’re British,” I said. “You can’t make decisions. That’s why she steps in.”

“I think the issue is, the British care more about doing things together than doing things correctly,” my dad said, half serious, half joking, as usual.

“I think the issue is, once you put someone on a pedestal,” I said, looking at my mom, “the only way left is down.”

“I don’t know how you put up with it,” she said.

“We’re both very direct. That’s why it works,” I said, surprised by my own clarity. “She’s the right match for me. She’s not the right match for you. And she doesn’t need to be. You’re just the in-laws. You see her 10 days a year. It’s great if you get along. But it’s not essential.”

The silence that followed was louder than the Spanish traffic. Of course they were offended— but they’re British, so they’re always offended quietly.

Still, I felt lighter. I realized I didn’t need to be the go-between anymore, not between my family and my partner. That it was never really my job to begin with. Or anyone’s. That realization helped.

A healthier balance

Six months later, I was looking up flights to visit my parents in England.

“I can’t make those dates,” Evelyn said, glancing over my shoulder at the screen.

“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

“Why not?”

I hesitated. We’d never talked about this assumption, though I’d carried it with me for so long. “Of course you can come,” I said carefully. “They’ll be glad, I’m sure. But you don’t have to.”

“You mean… I could just not go? Okay!”

And so a healthier balance began. These days, we mostly visit our families separately, which makes the time we do spend together feel easier.

Her parents are good people. Flawed, like everyone but decent at their core. They raised someone I love. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.

You’re an outsider trying to read a script that was written decades ago.

I get it now: We all go through the same journey with in-laws. It starts with enthusiasm and hope, then comes the slow rise of annoyance, until eventually you accept that, in the end, everyone is a little disappointing. And a bit crazy in some way.

The in-law relationship is especially tricky. Unlike your own family, it involves a lot of obligation, but not much unconditional love, shared history or genetic closeness. You’re an outsider trying to read a script that was written decades ago. You’re striving to connect with people you didn’t choose, and who didn’t choose you. You’re playing a role in a play where the audience may never see you as part of the cast, but still expects you to act like you are.

But in-laws are optional in a way your own family never is. You don’t have to make them love you. You don’t have to fit into their system. The point isn’t to expect harmony, it’s to find the right distance: close enough to honor the person you love, far enough not to drive everyone crazy.

*Originally published July 18, 2025, this article was updated July 24, 2025 with enriched media