Dear Annie: I often see letters in your column from mothers-in-law with various complaints about their daughters-in-law. The themes are familiar: “She never invites me to activities.” “She doesn’t take pictures of me with the baby.” “She won’t let me see my grandchild.”

What I find myself wondering is: Why is all of the frustration directed toward the daughters-in-law? If these women want to be included, invited or photographed, why aren’t they turning to their own sons? It seems that the burden of keeping extended family relationships warm and well-managed is unfairly placed on daughters-in-law, while the sons — their own children — are left out of the equation.

In my view, communication and planning with one’s own parents should be a shared responsibility, not something automatically dropped on the wife’s shoulders. If a son is unwilling or unable to handle these simple conversations with his family, perhaps the mothers should be asking themselves why — and also questioning the outdated, sexist expectations that keep daughters-in-law in the hot seat while their sons get a free pass.

So here’s my question: How can we shift this conversation so that mothers-in-law hold their sons accountable for family connection, instead of constantly blaming their daughters-in-law? — On Behalf of Daughters-in-Law Everywhere

Dear Daughter in Laws: Bravo. You nailed it. Too many mothers-in-law act as if their daughters-in-law are the cruise directors of family life while their own sons get a free pass. That is nonsense.

If Mom wants more calls, more visits, more pictures with the baby, she should look to her son, the child she actually raised, not blame the woman he married. Expecting the daughter-in-law to handle all the diplomacy is not just unfair; it is lazy and outdated.

Sons do not stop being sons when they marry. Time for everyone to remember that.

Dear Annie: I am in my late 70s and in reasonably good health, but life feels increasingly lonely. My partner, who was once my companion in everything, now has advanced dementia. He no longer recognizes me, and being around him is no longer safe. Doctors say he has only a few months left to live.

My only child lives two states away in a place I can’t stand, so moving there isn’t a real option. I’ve lived in my current city for over 20 years and once had a wide and supportive circle of friends. But over the last two years, that circle has grown painfully smaller. I’ve lost six friends this past year and 10 the year before. My crafting group dissolved, my lunching and hiking companions drifted away, and now two of my closest friends are gone — one moving across the country, the other in hospice.

I tried joining exercise classes, and for a while I thought I was making new friends. But I had to stop when an injury and a chronic disorder made repetitive motion too difficult. I still take part in three interest-based groups, but the connections there feel shallow. Most of the people in my age bracket are focused on their children and grandchildren, and they don’t seem interested in opening up to new friendships.

I volunteer as best I can, which gives me purpose, but it doesn’t take away the loneliness — especially on holidays, or in the long, dark evenings when the silence feels heavy. I am not physically strong enough for activities like hiking or sports, so I’m unsure where to turn. I feel adrift, with no close support system left, and I don’t know how to rebuild a life that feels meaningful and connected. — Feeling Lonely

Dear Lonely: You have been through so much loss, and it is no wonder the nights feel long. Many in your age group are quietly in the same place, even if they do not say it. Sometimes the best step is simply telling someone, “I would love more company. Want to meet for coffee?”

Look for smaller gatherings through libraries, senior centers or neighborhood groups. Volunteer in ways that bring conversation, like tutoring or helping at community events. The friendships may not look like the ones you had before, but new connections can still grow.

You are not at the end of your story. You are resilient, and there are people waiting to know you.

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