My husband, Victor, and I were preparing to marry off our daughter, Catherine. At twenty-seven, it was time for her to start her own family, especially since she’d met a good man—Arthur. He’s serious, works as an engineer, treats Catherine with care, and Victor and I took to him straight away. Everything was leading to a wedding—we’d already begun discussing the date, the dress, the guest list. But when I learned what Arthur’s mother, Margaret, had secured for her son as a “dowry,” I was nearly speechless. Are we back in the Middle Ages, where a dowry determines who’s worthy of whom?
Catherine is a bright young woman. She graduated from university, works as a marketer, and supports herself. Victor and I always taught her to be independent, never to rely solely on a husband. Still, as parents, we wanted to help the young couple start their life together. We decided to gift them money for a deposit on a flat, so they could take out a mortgage. I’d also been quietly assembling Catherine’s “dowry”—fine bed linens, a set of dishes, and even new curtains—to make their little nest cozy. I thought these were small touches of care. Arthur, the groom, had his savings too, insisting he wanted everything between them to be equal.
Then last week, Victor and I visited Margaret to discuss the wedding. A striking woman, always perfectly coiffed, she spoke as though she knew everything. Over tea, she began, “Natalie, what are you giving Catherine for her dowry? It’s tradition, you know—the bride should bring something into the marriage.” At first, I thought she was joking. Dowry? Were we meant to bring cattle and chests of gold? But Margaret was serious. She continued, “I’ve given Arthur a car—fully paid—and half the cost of a flat. What about you?”
I nearly dropped my cup. A car? Half a flat? Was she now presenting us with a bill for her son? I kept my composure, smiled, and said we were helping the children too, though I didn’t elaborate. Inside, I was seething. Victor and I aren’t millionaires, but we’ve given Catherine everything we could. Now it seemed our contribution was “trivial,” while Margaret had raised some prince we were supposed to shower with gifts?
Back home, I told Catherine everything. She just laughed. “Mum, what does it matter what they give? Arthur and I will manage.” But I was upset—not for myself, but for her. She’s so kind, so bright, and now she’s being weighed on some medieval scale. I spoke to Victor, but he brushed it off, as usual. “Nat, don’t let it get to you. What matters is the kids love each other.” Easy for him to say—I couldn’t let it go. Why must we justify ourselves to Margaret? Where do these expectations even come from? Does she think her son is a commodity?
A few days later, Catherine told me Arthur wasn’t thrilled with his mother’s talk either. “The car and money are nice,” he’d said, “but I don’t want this wedding to feel like a bidding war. I’m marrying Catherine, not her dowry.” That warmed me a little. Arthur has his head on straight—he truly loves our daughter. But Margaret wouldn’t let up. The other day, she called, probing about the dress we’d bought, how many guests we’d invite, and whether we’d “added anything substantial” to the dowry. I barely held my tongue.
Now I’m left wondering—how do we navigate this? On one hand, I don’t want to sour relations with the future in-laws. A wedding should be joyous. But this sense of obligation infuriates me. Victor and I worked our whole lives to raise Catherine—gave her education, values, love. Isn’t that worth more than cars and flats? And shouldn’t the young couple build their own life? We started in a tiny flat and made it work. Now it feels like we’re being dragged into some auction.
Catherine, bless her, tries to smooth things over. “Mum, don’t worry. Arthur and I will figure it out. We’ll get a mortgage if we must—no dowry needed.” But I see the discomfort in her too. She wants a happy wedding, not a battleground. I’ve resolved not to engage with Margaret anymore. Let her talk—we’ll do what’s right. We’ll give Catherine and Arthur what we promised, and celebrate their love. If she wants to measure wallets, that’s her problem.
Still, a bitterness lingers. A wedding should be about love, not ledger sheets. I know Catherine and Arthur will be fine—they’re strong, they adore each other. As for the dowry? Margaret can keep her car. Catherine’s real dowry is her heart, her mind, her kindness. And that, in any family, is worth its weight in gold.
