**Diary Entry: The Wedding Photographer’s Revenge**
If planning a wedding taught me anything, it’s this—you don’t just marry the bloke; you marry his mother as well. And in my case, that meant marrying into a lifetime of competition I never asked for.
My name’s Eleanor, and my husband, Oliver, is the kindest man you’ll ever meet. Patient, thoughtful, and utterly oblivious to his mother’s little games. His mum, Margaret, is what you might call “a force of nature.” Elegant, refined, and never shy about reminding us she was once a “county rose” in her youth. Her hair? Immaculate. Her makeup? Perfect. Her wardrobe? Costly, like something out of a *Harper’s Bazaar* spread.
And her signature move at weddings? Wearing white.
Yes, white. Stark, ivory, snow-white gowns—the sort that make guests blink twice and leave the bride fuming behind a polite smile.
Oliver’s elder sister, Charlotte, tied the knot three years before me. At her wedding, Margaret rocked up in a floor-length, off-the-shoulder white dress with pearls. “I hadn’t the faintest idea she’d wear lace,” Margaret had said, all wide-eyed innocence. “Mine’s satin. Entirely different.”
Charlotte was furious. Oliver just shrugged. “That’s Mum for you.”
Then came Oliver’s cousin Sophie’s wedding—and, predictably, Margaret did it again. This time, a tailored white trouser suit with a sheer cape fluttering behind her. Someone actually asked if she was renewing her vows.
Oliver finally confronted her that evening.
“Mum, what’s all this about?” he asked.
Margaret chuckled. “Oh, darling, I can’t help it if white suits me. Should I turn up in black like I’m at a funeral?”
That was her logic.
So when Oliver and I got engaged, I knew my options: stay quiet and hope she’d miraculously develop self-awareness… or brace for war.
I chose war.
From the start, Margaret made planning unbearable. She scoffed at our venue (“Too provincial”), the caterer (“Do they do gluten-free truffles?”), and even my veil.
“You’ve such a lovely face, Eleanor,” she said sweetly. “Why hide it behind all that fabric?”
I bit my tongue. Barely.
When invites went out, I slipped in a dress code note: “Guests are kindly requested to avoid white, ivory, or champagne.” Thought that would sort it.
It didn’t.
Two weeks before the wedding, Margaret texted me a photo of her chosen outfit.
White.
Not just white—a glittering, feathered mermaid dress. The caption read:
“Simply divine, isn’t it? Thought it might complement your theme!”
My hands trembled. Oliver took one look at my face and knew.
“She’s at it again,” I whispered. “And this time, it’s *my* wedding.”
To his credit, Oliver tried. He told her it mattered to me, that it was a clear line.
But Margaret played her usual hand.
“Oh, I didn’t realise it would bother her so. Must everything be so theatrical? Shall I just not come?”
That’s when it hit me—reason wouldn’t work. Shame, though? That might do it.
Enter James, our wedding photographer.
James, a mate’s recommendation, was known for his candid shots and dry wit. When I explained, he didn’t flinch.
“She’s done this twice before?” he said. “Fancy giving her a nudge?”
I nodded. “I don’t want a scene. But I won’t let her hijack the day.”
He grinned. “Leave it with me.”
The day arrived. Perfect. The flowers, the music, Oliver waiting at the altar with that soft look in his eyes. I felt like the star of the show—as every bride should.
And yes—Margaret swanned in *in the dress*.
White. Feathers. A thigh slit. She glided down the aisle like she owned it. Guests exchanged glances. A few muttered. Margaret? She *glowed*, as if they were all there for her.
I said nothing. Just caught James’s subtle nod.
At the reception, Margaret held court like royalty—selfies, champagne poses, elbowing her way into every shot.
I smiled. And waited.
Next day, James sent a preview album. We gathered for Sunday roast and projected the photos. Oohs and aahs for the ceremony shots—the kiss, the tears, the laughter.
Then came the reception.
A slideshow titled:
**“The Other Lady in White.”**
Every image of Margaret—altered.
One showed her trailing behind me, lighting tweaked so she looked like a spectre hovering.
Another had her beside Oliver, zoomed in with the caption: *“Who forgot the memo?”*
My favourite? A group shot where everyone sparkled… and Margaret was just *slightly* blurred, like an accidental photobomb.
The room erupted. Even Margaret looked baffled.
“What on earth—?” she spluttered.
The final slide read:
*“In Fond Memory of Wedding Etiquette (1990–2023)
Rest in peace.”*
Oliver sprayed his tea.
Margaret went beetroot. “Is this meant to be amusing?”
I finally spoke.
“No, Margaret. It’s a reminder. This day wasn’t yours. It never was.”
Silence. Margaret glanced at Oliver. He just sighed. “Mum… you *really* overstepped.”
To my shock, she stood, left without a word, and stayed quiet the rest of lunch.
A week later, she rang me.
Her voice was softer than I’d ever heard.
“I… I wanted to apologise. I didn’t see how hurtful I was being. I suppose I craved the spotlight more than I realised.”
I was gobsmacked.
“Those photos were mortifying,” she admitted. “But perhaps I needed that. Thank you for not making a scene. You were far kinder than I deserved.”
I accepted it.
True to her word—at the next family wedding, Margaret arrived in a elegant emerald gown. No feathers. No white. No nonsense.
Oliver and I joke now that our photographer didn’t just capture memories—he delivered justice.
Margaret and I’ll never be chums, and that’s fine. But we rub along now. She dotes on our little lad, compliments me without barbs, and sticks to sensible colours at dos.
Sometimes, I’ll spot her eyeing the framed wedding photo in our hall—the one where she’s *just* out of focus—and she’ll smirk and shake her head.
**Lesson learned?**
Some folk don’t see the line they’ve crossed—until you frame it, quite literally, in a photo album. A dash of humour and firm boundaries can reform even the most entitled. And no one forgets when the lens tells the truth.
