The mother-in-law sobbed uncontrollably right there at the wedding. Only she knew why.
The crowd of guests cheered, “Kiss! Kiss!” clapping their hands, champagne fizzing in their glasses, while the groom sheepishly pecked the bride on the cheek. Then, as if following a script, they ducked under the veil for a staged, awkward, almost theatrical kiss—forced and lacking any real spark. I saw it all. There was none of that magnetic pull, that raw closeness between them. They giggled, whispered—like they were acting out someone else’s wedding.
My dear friend Jennifer was marrying off her only daughter, Poppy. She fluttered about, anxious, wiping her palms on her dress every two minutes. When the guests settled, she tugged my sleeve with a frown:
“Look at the mother of the groom. Acting like it’s a funeral, not her son’s wedding.”
I scanned the room. I’d never met the groom’s mum before and didn’t even know which one she was. But when Jennifer nodded toward a woman in a grey dress with silver detailing, I understood. She sat in the far corner, face like thunder, as if she’d been betrayed. Head bowed, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. Her lips trembled, her breaths laced with so much grief it made my own chest tighten.
“Maybe she’s unwell?” I offered, trying to be gentle.
“Oh, come off it!” Jennifer scoffed. “She’s fretting over her flat! Scared Poppy and the baby will ‘move in’ on her. Her son inherited his gran’s three-bed—reckons my girl’s after it.”
“Bit early for divvying up property, isn’t it?” I joked, but the tension clung.
I kept watching her. While others laughed, ate, toasted—she didn’t touch her salad or champagne. Didn’t lift her gaze. Not even to her son, who should’ve been the centre of her world that night.
When another chorus of “Kiss! Kiss!” rang out, she jerked toward the window, lips pressed white. I couldn’t take it—I slipped over.
“Excuse me, you seem… really upset. Everything alright?”
She looked up. Tears swam in her eyes, but not from fragility—from real, bone-deep pain.
“I can’t pretend,” she whispered. “Forgive me, but this—it’s all a farce. My son… he doesn’t love her. Poppy’s kind, sweet. She’s happy—she doesn’t see it. But him? He’s marrying to spite his ex.”
I blinked. Hadn’t expected that.
“Surely not… You’re certain?”
“He told me. Wanted to show his ex how ‘happy’ he was. I begged him not to. But he’s stubborn. Thinks hurting someone else will dull his own pain. And I look at that girl—she’s glowing, believes in love with her whole heart. And he… he’s just punishing someone else. It makes me sick.”
“Maybe things will change? Feelings grow…”
“I wish I could believe that…” she said softly. “But I can’t. I pity her. So much. And my son—he’s a stranger now.”
I returned to my seat, silent. Said nothing to Jennifer. But two days later, she called.
“Poppy’s come home. Packed her things, won’t say why. No tears, no shouting—just silence. I don’t get it—everything was perfect!”
“I’ll be right there,” I said and hung up.
I gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. My heart ached for Poppy. But even more—for that mother-in-law. The woman who knew her son was wrecking a life and couldn’t stop it. Jennifer and Poppy would heal. Move on. Find others, trust again.
But her? She’d always remember. The day her son wore love like a costume. The day he married—not for love, but revenge. The day she alone didn’t clap. Because she couldn’t. Because she knew the truth.
