I was mortified at the thought of turning up to my own sons wedding. My clothes were outdatednot so much vintage as worn for every significant day since 1994and I knew Id stick out among the sea of posh wedding guests. But it was either that or don a bin bag.
I work behind the counter at the local greengrocers. The pay wouldnt get you far in London (frankly, wouldnt get you far in Blackpool, either), but I always held my head high. I brought my son up on my own and Ive never been prouder of the man hes become. We didnt have muchno trips to the Maldives or Range Rovers in the drivebut we always stayed honest and decent, which I figured counted for something in this world.
When my son broke the news hed fallen for a young woman from a rather well-heeled family and wanted to marry her, I was a cocktail of happiness and panic. I kept shtum and smiled, even though the whole how do I not embarrass him at his own wedding dilemma gnawed away at my mind. My purse was emptier than a London pub after last orders; helping with the wedding was out of the question.
For three months leading up to the big day, I barely slept. Worries about bills, catering, and my only boy leaving the nest kept me up. But what really nagged at me most? What, oh what, was I going to wear?
Back in the day, I owned exactly one proper dressa green number, plain as you like, affordable, and worn to everything that ever mattered. I wore it when my son was born, when he graduated college, and on various other big days. Now, as much as Id have loved something new, I had no choice but to dust off that lucky (if slightly faded) old dress and hope nobody would notice.
The minute I stepped into the church, the brides relatives started their murmuringlouder than a pack of seagulls at Brighton pier:
Is that the grooms mother?
Honestly, she couldve made a bit of an effort Imagine, your son getting married and you show up looking like that
Each whispered barb pricked me right in the chest. Surrounded by all those tailored outfits, sparkling jewellery, and noses turned high enough to sniff out weather fronts, I felt utterly invisibleor worse, laughable.
I was mortified at the thought of turning up to my sons weddingthanks to my tired old dressand, predictably, most of the guests took the mick at my expense. But nobody expected what my soon-to-be daughter-in-law did next.
Suddenly, here she comesslim, dazzling, practically glowing in a designer white gown that mustve cost more than my flat. I shrank inside; next to her, I felt about as glamorous as the cleaning lady at Buckingham Palace.
Then, loudly enough for even the back pew to hear, she beamed at me and went:
Oh! You wore the dress! I love it. Ive seen your photos from way back and you havent changed a bit. Honestly, you look gorgeous.
A hush swept over the church. Even the professional gossips went quiet.
She rested her hand gently on my shoulder and, softer now, said:
I was mortified at the thought of turning up to my sons weddingmy old dress was the talk of the church, and people were having a laugh at my expense. But my daughter-in-laws next words floored everyone.
Im so grateful you raised such an incredible man, and you did it all on your own. You showed him real lovewhat could be better? Im so proud to be joining your family. And the dress? Honestly, its not what you wear that matters most.
Then, right there and then, she bent down and kissed my hand.
Well, I lost ittears everywhere, mascara running like a cheap B&B shower. For the first time in my life, someone out loud recognised just how hard Ive triedhow much love and care Ive poured into raising my son all these years.
Every guest sat up and staredabsolutely stunned.
