Emily and James were preparing for their wedding. The celebration was in full swing when the master of ceremonies announced it was time for gifts. The bride’s parents were first to congratulate the couple. Then James’s mother, Margaret Hastings, approached them, holding a large box tied with a bright blue ribbon.
“Oh my! I wonder what’s inside?” Emily whispered excitedly to James.
“No idea,” the groom replied, shrugging. “Mum kept it a secret.”
They decided to open the gifts the next day, once the wedding excitement had settled. Emily suggested starting with the box from her mother-in-law. Untying the ribbon and lifting the lid, they peered inside… and stared in stunned silence.
Emily had noticed something odd about James early on—he never took anything, not even a trifle, without asking.
“Can I have the last biscuit?” he’d ask hesitantly, eyeing the lone treat in the tin.
“Of course!” Emily would reply, baffled. “You don’t need to ask.”
“Old habits,” he’d say with an awkward smile before popping it into his mouth.
It wasn’t until months later that Emily understood where this hesitation came from.
One evening, James introduced her to his parents, Margaret and Edward Hastings. At first, his mother seemed warm and welcoming, but first impressions quickly faded when she invited them to dinner.
Two plates were set before them, each with a mere spoonful of mashed potatoes and a tiny meatball. James finished quickly and, in a hushed voice, timidly asked for seconds.
“Honestly, James! Eating enough for four! You’ll bankrupt us!” Margaret snapped, loud enough to make Emily cringe.
When Edward asked for more, Margaret piled his plate high without complaint. Emily struggled to finish her meagre portion, disturbed by the blatant favouritism.
As wedding preparations began, Margaret’s disapproval grew louder. She criticised the rings, the venue, the menu.
“Why such extravagance? You could’ve found something cheaper!” she’d scold.
Finally, Emily had enough.
“We’ll handle it ourselves!” she fired back. “It’s our money, our choice!”
Offended, Margaret stopped calling—even threatening to skip the wedding altogether.
Two days before the ceremony, Edward visited the couple himself.
“Son, help me with something,” he said, leading James to the car.
Inside was a washing machine—a gift he’d bought secretly, unwilling to let Margaret’s stinginess spoil things. He admitted they’d argued fiercely—she’d called even this modest gesture too extravagant for her own son.
On the wedding day, Margaret arrived—wearing an expensive dress and arriving by taxi. She behaved politely, handed over the blue-ribboned box, then melted into the crowd.
The next morning, Emily and James eagerly unwrapped the box—only to deflate in disappointment.
“Towels?” Emily muttered, pulling out the first one.
“And socks,” James sighed, lifting two pairs of thick woolly ones. “Dad was right… She just grabbed whatever was lying around.”
But the story didn’t end there. Days later, Margaret called—not to congratulate them, but to interrogate.
“So, what did your in-laws give you? And Emily’s friends? Tell me everything!” she pressed.
James cut her short.
“Mum, it’s none of your business. We’re happy—that’s all that matters.”
He hung up, feeling not guilt but freedom.
Some lessons are simple: kindness isn’t measured by price tags, and respect—like love—is found in small gestures. Sadly, Margaret Hastings had forgotten both.
