**Diary Entry**
The weight of my mother-in-laws bitterness still lingers in my mind. I can hear her sharp voice, crackling down the telephone line, twisting my nerves into knots. *”You dont respect me at all!”* Her outrage was as relentless as the London rain, drowning out all reason.
I exhaled slowly, pressing my fingers against my temples. The memory of that morning before my wedding to Edward still stingshow his mother, a woman of rigid principles and unyielding pride, had declared herself too ill to attend. A common cold, she claimed, though she spoke as if it were the Black Death itself.
The call had come just hours before the ceremony. The sheer audacity of her demand*”Postpone the wedding!”*left me speechless. *”What do you mean, postpone? Everythings arranged! The venue, the guests My parents have travelled all the way from Manchester!”*
Edward listened in silence, his jaw set. Hed never stood up to her before. But today, his voice was firm. *”Mum, its just a cold. We cant cancel over something so trivial.”*
For the first time in her life, she had no retort. Only a choked sob, thick with wounded pride, before she hissed, *”Fine. If neither of you care about my health, then so be it. But mark my wordsif anything goes wrong, itll be on your heads.”*
Then, silence. The dial tone hummed mockingly. My fingertips drummed the table, restless.
Meanwhile, Edwards mother clutched her phone, her hands trembling as she dialled. Guilt gnawed at her, but bitterness won. *”Martha? Its me. Listen, the weddings postponed. Ive come down with the fluEdward agrees its for the best.”*
A sympathetic gasp. *”Oh, you poor dear! Of course, get well soon!”*
One call bled into another. Lies spun like cobwebs. *”Helen? Yes, its true. The doctors insist I rest. The wedding must wait.”* Each voice on the other end cooed with pity, oblivious to the poison beneath her words.
Only her conscience whispered back*Youre hurting him. Hurting yourself.*
By evening, the truth unravelled. The chapel stood half-empty. Only my closest friends, a few of Edwards colleagues, and distant relativesthose untouched by his mothers meddlingremained. The rest had vanished, swayed by her fabricated crisis.
For a moment, fury blurred my vision. Then, laughter filled the air. The room glowed with warmth, defiance stitching us closer. We danced, we toasted, we carved joy from the wreckage.
Miles away, Edwards mother sat alone, weeping into her handkerchief. The walls echoed with her resentment. *”To them, Im just a fussy old woman. Was it too much to ask for a little consideration?”*
When the truth surfaced, even her staunchest allies recoiled. Some muttered disapproval; others held their tongues, wary of her temper.
Edward, wounded beyond words, made his choice. We left London behind, retreating to Bristolfar from her shadow, far from the wounds she refused to let heal.
