If there’s one thing I’ve learnt from organising a wedding, it’s this: you don’t just marry the woman – you marry her mother too. And in my case, that meant signing up for a lifetime of rivalry I never asked for.
My name’s Oliver, and my now-wife Eleanor is the kindest woman you’ll ever meet. Patient, considerate, and utterly oblivious to her mother’s schemes. Her mother, Margaret, is what some might politely call “a character.” Always immaculate, always poised, and never shy to remind us she was once “a debutante of note.” Her hair? Perfectly coiffed. Her makeup? Impeccable. Her wardrobe? Tailored and pricier than a Savile Row suit.
And her favourite wedding attire? White.
Of course. Stark, brilliant, unmistakable white. The sort that has guests raising eyebrows and leaves the bride quietly seething.
Eleanor’s older brother, William, got married two years before us. At his wedding, Margaret appeared in a sweeping white gown with silver embroidery. She insisted she “had no clue” the bride would be in something similar.
“It’s organza, darling,” Margaret had said, feigning innocence. “Hers is chiffon. Entirely different.”
William was furious. But Eleanor just brushed it off with her usual, “That’s just Mum.”
Then came Eleanor’s cousin Charlotte’s wedding – and yes, Margaret did it again. This time, a fitted white trouser suit with a dramatic cape flowing behind her. I overheard someone ask if she was there to announce her own engagement.
That evening, Eleanor finally challenged her.
“Mum, what on earth are you playing at?” she asked.
Margaret laughed. “Oh, darling, white simply suits me. Should I turn up in grey and pretend I’m at a board meeting?”
That was her reasoning.
So, when Eleanor and I got engaged, I knew I had two choices: stay silent and hope she’d suddenly develop some tact… or get ready to outmanoeuvre her.
I went with the latter.
From the start, Margaret made planning unbearable. She scoffed at our venue (“Too countryside”), the menu (“Do they offer truffle-infused roast beef?”), and even questioned Eleanor’s choice of a cathedral-length train.
“You’ve such delicate features, Oliver,” she remarked, with that practised smile. “You wouldn’t want to drown them in all that fabric, would you?”
I bit my tongue. Barely.
When invitations went out, I slipped in a gentle dress code: “Guests are kindly requested to steer clear of white, cream, or ivory.” I thought that might suffice.
It didn’t.
A fortnight before the wedding, Margaret sent me a photo of her chosen outfit.
It was white.
Not just white – a floor-length, sequin-scattered mermaid dress with a feathered trim. The caption read:
“Rather glam, don’t you think? Felt it might complement your décor!”
I stared at my phone, hands trembling.
Eleanor caught my expression and asked what was wrong. When I showed her, the penny dropped.
“She’s done it again,” I muttered. “And now it’s our wedding.”
To her credit, Eleanor tried. She told Margaret how much it meant to us, that it was a simple request.
But Margaret played her usual hand.
“Oh, I didn’t realise it would cause such a fuss. Must everything be so theatrical? Would you rather I didn’t attend?”
It dawned on me then – reason wouldn’t work. Diplomacy had failed. But a dose of public shame? That might do it.
Enter Jack, our wedding photographer.
Jack came highly recommended, known for his sharp eye and dry wit. When I explained the situation, he didn’t hesitate.
“She’s worn white twice already?” he said. “Fancy giving her a nudge in the right direction?”
I nodded. “I don’t want a scene. But I won’t have her upstaging us either.”
He smirked. “Say no more.”
The day arrived.
It was perfect: the roses in full bloom, the string quartet playing, Eleanor walking towards me with tears in her eyes. We exchanged vows beneath an oak arch, and for that moment, nothing else mattered.
And yes… Margaret arrived in *that* dress.
White. Sequins. A thigh-high slit. She glided in as if the aisle were her own personal catwalk. Guests exchanged glances. A few stifled gasps. Margaret? She basked in it, chin lifted like she’d won best in show.
I didn’t react. Just locked eyes with Jack, who gave me a subtle thumbs-up.
At the reception, Margaret held court like royalty. She posed with flutes of champagne, inserted herself into every group shot, and made sure all lenses were on her.
I smiled. And waited.
The next morning, Jack sent through a preview of the photos.
We gathered the family for breakfast and projected the slideshow onto the lounge wall. Everyone sighed over the tender ceremony shots – stolen kisses, teary speeches, laughter caught in golden light.
Then came the reception.
First, a shot of the groomsmen laughing. Then one of Eleanor’s mum twirling on the dancefloor. And then…
A collection titled:
**”The Lady in White – A Tribute.”**
Every. Single. Picture. Of Margaret.
But not as she imagined.
Jack had edited her differently. In one, she loomed behind us like a spectral figure, her dress washed into a ghastly pale hue.
In another, she stood beside Eleanor – but the focus was on her with the caption:
*”Breaking News: Local Mum Forgets Wedding Etiquette.”*
My favourite? A group photo where everyone else sparkled… and Margaret was ever so slightly out of focus, like an unwanted guest at the edge of the frame.
The room erupted. Even Margaret looked baffled.
“Wait – is this some sort of joke?” she demanded.
Jack had even included a final slide:
*”A Fond Farewell to Basic Decency (1990–2023)
Gone but not forgotten.”*
Eleanor snorted into her tea.
Margaret turned scarlet. “Is this meant to be amusing?”
I finally spoke.
“No, Margaret. It’s meant to make a point. Today wasn’t your day. It never was.”
Silence fell. Margaret glanced at Eleanor, hoping for defence. But she only sighed and said, “Mum… you walked right into that one.”
To everyone’s shock – mine included – she stood, wordlessly left the room, and didn’t return until the plates were cleared.
A week later, Margaret rang me.
Her tone was softer than I’d ever heard.
“I owe you an apology,” she said. “I didn’t see how selfish I’d been. I suppose… I enjoyed the spotlight more than I cared to admit.”
I was speechless.
She went on. “Those pictures were mortifying. But perhaps I needed that. Thank you for handling it with dignity – far more than I showed you.”
I accepted it.
True to her word – at the next family wedding, Margaret appeared in a deep emerald gown. No sequins. No white. No theatrics.
Eleanor and I laugh now that our photographer didn’t just document the day – he delivered poetic justice.
Margaret and I may never be close, and that’s fine. But we’ve found peace. She dotes on our daughter, offers genuine compliments, and sticks to sensible colours at events.
And sometimes, I’ll catch her eyeing the framed wedding photo in our hall – the one where she’s ever so slightly blurred in the background – and she’ll chuckle and shake her head.
The lesson here?
Some people don’t recognise the boundaries they’ve trampled – until you spotlight them, frame them, and display them for all to see. With the right blend of wit and backbone, even the most entitled habits can be reformed. And no one forgets the moment the camera reveals the truth.
