I think my in-laws aren’t that fond of me. Well, namely my mother-in-law. We seemed, I thought, to have reached a comfortable place recently, but I think I was deluding myself.

It took her an abnormally long time to cut those apron strings with my husband. And it really bothered me in the beginning of our relationship, mine and my husband’s, because she always seemed to be his priority. That’s probably pretty typical, right? And I know that she probably, albeit secretly, felt I wasn’t good enough for her son. Isn’t that what mother’s think about their baby boys? But she relied on him so much, still does to this day. And although it seems to me that the only time we hear from her is when she needs her Tivo fixed, or her alarm clock set or her cable box replaced, and my husband pretends it annoys him, I think, deep down, that he likes being needed.

I adore my father-in-law. He’s a super guy, just kind and benevolent and sweet. But my relationship with my mother-in-law got off to a bit of a rocky start, right around the planning of mine and my husband’s wedding. And this is not to say that I don’t like her, because I do. I really, honestly believe she’d do anything for her family. I do.

My mother-in-law wanted me to come in to Dallas for a weekend so that her friends could host some kind of a party for me. An engagement thing, I think. I thought it was a nice idea, was willing to do it, even though we lived in New York at the time and had barely five months to plan and execute our wedding. I wanted to get married in Vail, Colorado, a place that is very near and dear to my heart. I’ve been spending winters there since I was a tiny little thing and wanted to wed at the top of the mountain – outside at 10,000 feet above sea level – at my father’s club. But there was a very short time in which we could make it happen and so we were in a mad dash to get it all together. And we did get it all together, but every moment counted, and so it was a really big deal for me to lose a weekend to fly to Dallas for a party. But I was planning on it.

So when the party was canceled and no one told me, I was crushed. Adding insult to injury, it had been canceled for about a week or two before anyone actually thought to tell me so. So when I did finally find out the party was off, I canceled the trip. Probably not a smart move on my part, but holy heck! We were under the gun and there were menus to approve and guest lists to finalize, and please! Cut me some slack!

After our wedding, a huge success, we settled back in to life in Westchester County, New York. We were in a rental house on three acres in a tony section of the ‘burbs and it was all lovely except for one thing – it was freezing in the winter. And the house, an old stone cottage built in the ’30s, had something ridiculous like electric heat. Our first heating bill that fall – for a 2-bedroom house – was hovering around $800. That is nothing short of insane, considering we quite literally had only turned the heat on in one room of the house. So, that November, we bought a new house in Connecticut. It was a beautiful old white clapboard Colonial, just off the town square and was like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. But it needed to be gutted. And we did it all at once – new kitchen, new wood floors, new moldings, new stairs… and while it was all being done, we settled in to spend the next nine or so months living in the basement.

And during that time, my husband’s niece came to spend two weeks with us. And I’m not going to lie: I was not the best hostess, but oh my God the timing was off. She was 12 at the time, needy and sheltered and I was loud and uptight – a typical New Yorker. There were other things going on as well, namely the tight funds in our house because of all the home renovation projects we were undergoing. It was not an ideal set-up and there might have been some words that were passed between my mother-in-law and myself about the whole situation. It was all shameful and regrettable and quite frankly very human, but you know – life is sometimes sticky.

But I don’t think my mother-in-law has ever forgotten that weekend. And she’s certainly never forgiven me for it. And I think it’s always in the back of her mind. And so, when some things came up this afternoon during a conversation my husband was having with his mother and father, and his father took it upon himself to say “please don’t repeat this to Melissa because we don’t want her to think it’s about her…” Well, hello? How could I not think it’s about me, especially after a disclaimer like that?