Over such a trifle I wont even ask for time off work, Mum said when I invited her to my wedding. I stood with a phone pressed to my ear, convinced that I was about to wake up, because nothing could be that absurd. Yet it wasnt a fleeting mood Mum was genuinely offended.
To me the cause was petty. She wanted a grand ceremony, at least a hundred guests, a banquet hall, a live band, a photographer, a videographer, a toastmaster, and three dress changes. She imagined every relative, every acquaintance, every neighbour even the neighbour who always watered my begonias turning up.
I wanted only one thing: to be surrounded by the people I love. So Andrew and I decided to keep the celebration intimate, a handful of the closest souls.
Mum kept repeating that she had spent her whole life dreaming of seeing my wedding, watching my first dance amid applause, watching the godparents hand over heirloom jewellery, and hearing Auntie Lottie reminisce about my mischief in the nursery.
When I looked at the guest list, most names were strangers.
Whos Uncle Stephen? I asked.
Dont be ridiculous, hes my secondcousin! Mum snapped. He carried you in his arms when you were a baby.
I was six months old, Mum. I dont remember him.
Well, he remembers you!
She began rattling off distant aunts, farflung cousins, friends who watched me grow in reality, they were her friends. I wondered why I should host a wedding where half the faces were strangers.
Andrew and I agreed on a simple affair, free of pomp, loud toasts, and prying eyes. Twenty people, the dearest ones, and that would be enough.
We didnt have money for a banquet hall we were still paying the first mortgage instalment on the little terraced house wed rented. I suggested a cosy family setting: a modest community hall, fresh flowers, a homemade cake, a Bluetooth speaker, and a tide of genuine feeling.
All that matters is that were together, Andrew said. Everything else is secondary.
His parents, however, turned up their noses at first, because they too wanted to make a show of themselves before the relatives.
How can you think of a wedding without a banquet? What will the neighbours say?
Andrew answered briskly:
If youre footing the whole bill, then go ahead and invite two hundred.
His parents fell silent, and Andrew continued:
The one who pays decides the scale. If you want a big wedding, it will be big. If not, well do it our way.
His mother looked offended but soon withdrew. My own mother, however, never even tried to understand. With her, the same trick didnt work.
When I told Mum we were planning a tiny ceremony, she first laughed a nervous, dismissive chuckle.
What nonsense are you spouting? People will think youre a joke! A wedding for twenty? Do people really do that?
I tried to explain that it wasnt about public opinion but about our comfort. She stopped listening.
She erupted:
I raised you, fed you, and now youre demanding money from me for your modest wishes?
Mum, Im not asking for money! I tried to keep my voice steady. I just want you to see that we want something different.
She fell silent for a heartbeat, then said softly but firmly:
If you put on such a petty show, I wont even ask for a day off work.
And she hung up.
I wept for days, not because the grand wedding would never happen, but because my own mother had placed her notion of how it should be above my how I want it.
I was her only child, and I had always imagined her standing beside me when I said I do. Mum, however, held fast.
Aunt Gillian, my mothers sister, called later and tried to soothe me:
Shes just being proud, love. She wanted to parade her daughter at a big event, and you spoiled that parade.
I stayed quiet. I had grown up and knew I had to make my own choices, choices that suited me, not Mum. It wasnt disrespect; it was adulthood.
Andrew and I stuck to our plan. We booked a Saturday at a little café on the outskirts of the village, strings of fairy lights, candles, a simple arch over a pond.
I chose a light dress not a ball gown, no veil, just something soft, like a sunrise. A friend helped with my hair, and Mum never arrived, nor did she call.
On the wedding day I still hoped she might appear at the last minute, perhaps seeing me in a white dress. From early morning I posted pictures on social media, but she never glanced at them.
During the ceremony I tried not to cry. When the guests congratulated each other, when the motherinlaw wept with joy, when my estranged father Mums former husband whispered, Youre beautiful, my girl, Im proud youre happy, I finally broke down.
I knew Mum was somewhere, perhaps not even remembering that her only child was getting married, or perhaps sitting alone, tears streaming because she felt slighted.
Afterwards I sent her a few photos with a short note: Mum, I wanted you there. Thank you for teaching me strength. I love you, even if you didnt come. There was no reply.
A month passed. Then another. Mum never called, never answered my calls. We moved to a quieter part of town, built a modest life, but inside there lingered a void not anger, not resentment, but a quiet disappointment.
At some point I realised: Mum hadnt turned down the wedding; she had turned away from me when I didnt follow her script.
One evening Aunt Gillian phoned again:
She looked at the photos I showed her. She stayed silent a long while, then said youre lovely. But she cant be proud, because its not a wedding, its a dinner.
Bitterness settled in. Even after weeks, Mum still couldnt simply say, I miss you.
A year later we were expecting a child. I hesitated to tell Mum; she never called, never asked. I decided not to break the silence first.
When our daughter was born, I finally dialled Mums number. My voice trembled:
Mum we have a girl. Your granddaughter.
She was quiet, then replied coolly:
Im glad. Send my regards to Andrew.
Will you come to see her? I asked softly.
I dont know. Ill see how work goes.
Silence fell again. I hung up, realizing Mum hadnt changed.
A month later came the christening. We kept it modest just the nearest family. I left a seat at the table for Mum, hoping she might arrive unannounced.
The chair stayed empty.
That night I lay awake, watching my newborn daughter sigh in the cot, and wondered: would I ever be so angry at my own child that I wouldnt attend the most important day of her life? I answered silently never.
Six months later Mum finally called.
Hello, she said dryly. I saw the babys pictures online. Shes growing up nicely.
Yes, she looks just like Andrew, I replied, smiling.
Maybe youll drop by sometime? Ive baked some scones.
Me? Or us together? I asked.
Whatever you like, she said, and for the first time in ages, a softness crept into her voice.
We drove to her flat. She greeted us in an apron, a tray of fresh scones in her hands, and immediately took the baby into her arms.
Look at her, isnt she a little treasure! Just like you, she beamed.
We sat in the kitchen, the only sound the soft crackle of the oven. After a while she said:
You know I was foolish back then.
Mum, I whispered, dont
No, I must say it. I thought a big wedding was a symbol of success. If I showed everyone the daughter Id raised, Id be happy. When you chose your own way, I felt humiliated.
She wiped a tear and added:
Only now do I understand that happiness isnt about how many people sit at the table, but about who sits beside you.
I listened as the ice between us melted.
I was scared you wouldnt forgive me, she admitted.
Mum, Ive long forgiven you. I just wanted you to say it yourself.
She hugged me and held on for a long while.
Youre wise, my girl, she whispered. May your life be different from mine, but happy.
That evening, as we drove home, I looked in the rearview mirror. Mum stood at the gate, holding our daughter, waving goodbye. For the first time in years, she seemed truly content.
Now, when anyone asks about the wedding, I answer simply:
It was quiet, but real.
Because the crucial thing isnt the number of guests, the music, or the photographs. Its that on that day the people who love you sit beside you, not the people you feel you have to impress.
Mum finally understood late, but understood.
And now, as I plan my daughters birthday, shes the first to call and ask:
Darling, what should we buy? Shall we have a small celebration at home, just for us?
I smile every time, because I know she has finally learned to rejoice not loudly, but sincerely.
