When you’ve been dating someone for years, you’d think their mom would at least remember your name. But apparently, some mothers-in-law have selective memory — especially when they’re not ready to let go of their son’s past.
I’m Jenny, and my boyfriend and I have been together for three years. His mom, Diane, has never liked me. From day one, she made her feelings obvious — by calling me by his ex’s name. At first, I tried to laugh it off. “Oh, you mean Jenny, not Laura,” I’d say, smiling politely. But then she’d smirk like it was some harmless mistake.
After months of subtle digs, things got even weirder. She started calling me Janet. Not his ex’s name. Not my name. Just… Janet.
I have no idea where Janet came from — maybe it was her way of refusing to learn who I actually am.
A few weeks before Thanksgiving, Diane called and said, “Why don’t we let Janet make the turkey this year?”
My boyfriend rolled his eyes, ready to defend me, but I stopped him. “You know what?” I said. “That’s a great idea.”
Because if she wanted Janet — then Janet she would get.
Thanksgiving Day arrived. Diane was in full hostess mode, fluttering around the kitchen, bragging to her relatives that her “Janet” was handling the turkey. She even corrected someone who called me Jenny. “Oh no, it’s Janet,” she said proudly.
I smiled sweetly. “Of course, Diane.”
What she didn’t know was that I’d swapped out her traditional recipe for something extra memorable. The turkey was perfectly golden on the outside… and completely raw inside. I served it just as she liked — center of the table, carved in front of everyone.
When her brother cut into it, pink juice oozed out. The room went silent. Diane’s jaw dropped.
“What on earth is this?!” she shrieked.
I widened my eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, Diane. I guess Janet isn’t much of a cook.”
The entire table erupted into awkward laughter. My boyfriend nearly choked trying not to laugh.
Diane turned crimson. “You did this on purpose!”
I shrugged. “I just followed your directions. You asked Janet to make the turkey, not me.”
There was yelling. There was finger-pointing. But eventually, she went quiet. My boyfriend took my hand and said calmly, “Mom, her name is Jenny. Maybe next year, you’ll remember it.”
After that night, Diane didn’t call me Janet anymore. Or Laura. Or anything else. She called me Jenny.
Sometimes, lessons don’t come from lectures — they come from raw turkey.
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