Today I pay tribute to my Greek mother-in-law, Debbie. I truly miss her. May her memory be eternal.
My Greek mother-in-law
Debbie was a mother in the fullest sense of the word. To her two biological children—Alexandra, whom I’m honoured to call my wife, and her brother, who will always be my lifelong friend—she was a constant source of love and guidance. But Debbie’s maternal instinct couldn’t be confined to just her immediate family. She was a mother to hundreds, leaving an indelible mark on everyone she met. Her influence was profound, her love boundless, and she touched lives in ways that will always be remembered with warmth and affection. Let me tell you about my Greek mother-in-law.
Philotimo personified
In ancient Greece, the concept of philotimo—a love of honour and the good deeds that flow from it—was considered one of the highest virtues. Debbie embodied philotimo in every aspect of her life. She lived not just for herself or her family, but for everyone she encountered, pouring her love into the world and making it a better place by her very presence. The Greeks have always revered their elders, understanding that with age comes wisdom and a deeper connection to the cycles of life. But Debbie was exceptional. The respect and love she commanded weren’t merely a matter of age; she earned them through the kindness she extended to all, the quiet strength she showed in adversity, and the unshakeable love she gave freely to those around her.
Preparing us for her loss
As time passed, I watched Debbie begin to change. The love she had for everyone remained, but there was a new weariness in her, a deepening preoccupation with the inevitable end that comes for us all. Like many Greek yiayias, she developed an almost ritualistic obsession with death. It became a fixture in our conversations, slipping in unexpectedly, as if to remind us that life is fleeting, and we should hold each moment dear. We could be chatting over coffee about the upcoming holidays, and suddenly, she’d remark with that familiar phrase, “If I’m not dead by then.” It was as predictable as it was poignant, a subtle nudge towards the impermanence of life.
When Alex complimented her on a dress, Debbie’s response was always the same: “You can have it when I die.” And no visit was complete without her asking, “When are you going to have more babies? I want to see more grandchildren before I die.” The fact that Alex and I were in our mid-50s seemed irrelevant to her; it was as if time and logic bent to her will. It was all part of a clever cultural dance, a way of asserting her presence and love while also preparing us for a time when she would no longer be there. By weaving death into the fabric of our daily conversations, she ensured we would think about life—and more importantly, about life without her.
(Over)feeding us
And then there were the meals, which could only be described as epic. Every lunch was a feast, stretching from midday well into the evening. After an hour or two of non-stop eating, I’d find myself pleading, “Please, no more, I can’t eat another bite.” But Debbie would look at me with that familiar hurt expression, as if I had just insulted her cooking. “But you’re so thin! Eat something, you’ve eaten nothing. You don’t like my food?” And then, with the dramatic flair only a Greek mother could pull off, she’d add, “I will die soon, and then you’ll have to cook for yourself. You’ll get even thinner!” It was impossible to refuse her. Guilt-ridden, I’d end up finishing another plate of stuffed tomatoes, followed by more baklava, and just a bit more yogurt with honey “to help with digestion,” she’d insist.
After these marathon meals, we’d sit together, sipping coffee while I discreetly unbuttoned my shirt to give my overstuffed belly some relief. Debbie would eye me critically and say, “You’re getting fat; you need to lose a little weight. If you get too fat, you’ll get sick. Then who will take care of the family when I die?” It was a cycle—one moment she was fattening me up, the next, she was warning me about the dangers of indulgence, all while reminding me of the inevitable day when she would no longer be there to keep me in line. Ahhh. That’s a Greek mother-in-law—and mother—for you.
Teaching us lessons
Debbie was a living paradox—a woman who could drive you to the edge of exasperation while simultaneously wrapping you in a blanket of unconditional love. Her insistence on bringing death into every conversation was more than just a quirk; it was a profound reminder of the fleeting nature of life, a nod to the ancient Greek understanding that all things are temporary. In her way, she was teaching us to cherish the present, to savour the time we had with her, and to carry forward the values she instilled in us.
Greek yiayias/mothers are more than just family matriarchs; they are the keepers of tradition, the weavers of wisdom, and the living embodiments of philotimo. They remind us that life is both beautiful and fragile, a gift to be honoured and cherished. I couldn’t help but love Debbie for everything she was—her wisdom, her humour, her relentless obsession with mortality, and most of all, her boundless love.
What would we do without our Greek mothers (and mothers-in-law) and yiayias? More importantly, who would we be without them?
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Read tales of Greek life & love:
The Not-So Ancient Battle of the Sexes
The Beauty of an Anglo-Greek Marriage