Eloise and Edward were to be wed. Their wedding was in full swing when the toastmaster announced it was time for gifts. The bride’s parents were first to offer their blessings. Then Edward’s mother, Margaret Whitmore, approached, clutching a large box tied with a pale blue ribbon.
“Goodness! I wonder what’s inside?” Eloise whispered excitedly to Edward.
“No idea. Mother kept it a secret,” the groom replied, equally puzzled.
They agreed to open the presents the next day, once the wedding bustle had settled. Eloise suggested starting with the box from her mother-in-law. Untying the ribbon and lifting the lid, they peered inside… and stood speechless.
Eloise had long noticed an odd habit in Edward: he never took even the smallest thing without permission.
“May I have the last sweet?” he’d ask hesitantly, eyeing the lone toffee in the dish.
“Of course!” Eloise would reply, baffled. “You needn’t ask.”
“Old habit,” he’d murmur, unwrapping it quickly.
It took months before Eloise understood where this shyness came from.
One evening, Edward introduced her to his parents—Margaret and Alfred Whitmore. At first, his mother seemed warm, but the illusion shattered over dinner. The hostess served modest portions: two spoonfuls of potatoes and a tiny cutlet per plate. Edward finished quickly and, lowering his voice, timidly asked for more.
“You’d eat us out of house and home!” Margaret scolded loudly, mortifying Eloise. Yet when Alfred asked for seconds, Margaret piled his plate high. Eloise barely touched her meal, stunned by the disdain his mother showed her own son.
Later, as wedding plans unfolded, Margaret grew more critical. She disliked everything—the rings, the venue, the menu.
“Such extravagance! You could’ve found cheaper!” she’d snipe.
Eloise finally snapped.
“This is *our* wedding—and *our* choice!”
Offended, Margaret stopped calling and even threatened to skip the wedding.
Two days before, Alfred visited alone.
“Son, help me with this,” he said, leading Edward to his car.
Inside was a washing machine—a gift bought secretly, without Margaret’s approval. He admitted they’d quarreled; she’d deemed even a wedding gift for her son too costly.
On the day, Margaret arrived—in a lavish dress, by cab. She handed over the ribboned box and vanished into the crowd.
Come morning, Eloise and Edward tore into it, only to deflate.
“Towels?” Eloise muttered, pulling out the first.
“And socks,” Edward sighed, lifting two pairs of plain ones. “Father was right—she grabbed the first thing to hand. I wish she’d come empty-handed instead.”
But days later, Margaret called.
“Tell me, what did the others give? Your in-laws? The bridesmaids?” she pressed.
Edward cut her short.
“None of your concern. We’re happy with what we received.”
Then he hung up—without an ounce of guilt, for the first time in his life.
A gift’s worth isn’t measured in coin, but respect, like love, is shown in the little things. And those, alas, Margaret had long since forgotten.
