I want to renovate the flat, but my mother-in-law insists on a wedding loud enough for the whole neighbourhood to hear. Who will bend first?
If someone had told me a year ago that my husband and I would be arguing over a wedding, I’d have laughed. Isn’t love all that matters? Edward and I have been together nearly five years. We live in my flat in Birmingham, which I used to rent out for years before moving in after a quick, bare-minimum makeover. Now, though, it needs a full renovation—pipes, walls, wiring, floors. It’s not a luxury. It’s necessity.
I suggested a compromise: a quiet registry office ceremony, no grand venues or rowdy celebrations. Just a meal at home with our parents. The money saved could go into our home—into our real life. But one woman, it seems, can’t be reasoned with. Edward’s mother—Margaret Holloway.
“Edward is my only son!” she exclaims. “How can there be no proper wedding? We’ve attended all our relatives’ celebrations—are we really going to shame ourselves now? Everyone’s expecting it! The whole family knows there’s a wedding coming!”
“We never asked you to invite them,” I reminded her calmly.
“That’s not your place! I won’t stand for the humiliation of my son sneaking off to the registry office like it’s nothing!”
The problem is, I’ve never even met most of these “relatives.” Who they are, where they’re from, how many there are—no idea. But Margaret’s already called them all, warned them, even hinted at dates.
“You and Edward have savings, I’ve put a bit aside, and your parents might chip in—let’s have a proper wedding!” she declares brightly, deaf to my protests.
My parents, mind you, are on my side. They agree—investing in the flat is more important than pouring thousands into a dress worn once or a venue for show. But they said if we decide otherwise, they’ll help. No pressure. No ultimatums.
Margaret, though, sees it differently. For her, her son’s wedding isn’t about us—it’s about her. How she’ll look to her family. And to twist the knife, she’s resorted to blackmail.
“If you don’t throw a proper wedding, I no longer have a son. I won’t acknowledge either of you. Disgraceful!”
I watched Edward. He stayed silent. Then… he started giving in. Not because he agrees, but because he pities her. Because she’s crying, suffering, calling herself humiliated and abandoned.
I told him bluntly:
“If your mother wants a wedding, she can pay for it. Every penny. We’re not contributing. Not me. Not my parents. Not a single pound.”
And then, of course, the final act:
“I don’t have that sort of money!” Margaret shrieked. “But you’re not exactly living in a cardboard box, are you?”
There it is. A vicious cycle. Edward—torn. Me—exhausted. The flat crackles with tension, like the air before a storm. He doesn’t demand the wedding, but he won’t fix this either. He says it’ll look “bad” now—everyone’s been invited, and suddenly, silence. But since when do strangers matter more than our future?
I’m not against a wedding—if it were ours. Not Margaret’s spectacle. I want a home where the air isn’t thick with damp, where the windows seal properly, where the bathroom and kitchen aren’t falling apart. I want a life, not a performance—photos in an album no one will care about in a year.
And if that means standing my ground against my mother-in-law, I will. Because my home, my choice. And if Edward is still my partner—not just Margaret’s son—he’ll understand.
