My husband, Edward, and I are preparing for our daughter Charlotte’s wedding. At 27, it’s time for her to start her own family, especially since she’s met a wonderful man—Oliver. He’s serious, works as an engineer, treats Charlotte with care, and Edward and I took to him straight away. Everything was moving toward the wedding—we’d even started discussing the date, the dress, and the guest list. But when I found out what Oliver’s mother, Margaret, had provided for her son as a “dowry,” I nearly lost my voice. Are we back in the Middle Ages, where a dowry decides who’s worthy of whom?
Charlotte is a clever girl. She graduated from university, works in marketing, and supports herself. Edward and I always taught her to be independent, not to rely solely on her husband. Still, as parents, we wanted to help the young couple get started. We decided to gift them money for a house deposit so they could take out a mortgage. I’d also been quietly putting together a “trousseau” for Charlotte—beautiful bed linens, a set of dishes, even new curtains to make their nest cosy. I thought these were small touches to show we cared. Oliver, as the groom, had promised to contribute too—he had savings and said he wanted everything between him and Charlotte to be equal.
Last week, Edward and I went to Margaret’s to discuss the wedding. She’s a formidable woman—hair always salon-perfect, speaking as if she knows everything under the sun. We sat down for tea, and then she started: “Emma, what are you giving Charlotte as a dowry? It’s tradition for the bride to bring something into the family.” At first, I thought she was joking. A dowry? Are we supposed to bring cows and chests of gold? But Margaret was dead serious. Then she dropped it: “I’ve given Oliver a fully paid-off car and half the cost of a flat. What have you got?”
I nearly dropped my cup. A car? Half a flat? Is she billing us for her son now? I bit my tongue, smiled, and said we were helping the kids too, avoiding details. Inside, I was boiling. Edward and I aren’t millionaires, but we’ve done our best for Charlotte. Now it seems our “trousseau” is pocket change, while Margaret’s raised nothing short of a prince we’re supposed to shower with gifts?
Back home, I told Charlotte everything. She just laughed: “Mum, who cares what they’re giving? Oliver and I will manage.” But it stung—not for me, but for her. She’s so bright and kind, yet suddenly she’s being judged by some outdated measure. I talked to Edward, but he brushed it off as usual: “Emma, don’t let it get to you. The important thing is they love each other.” Easy for him to say. Why should we justify ourselves to Margaret? Where does she get off making demands like this? Does she think Oliver’s a stock exchange listing and we’re bidding?
A few days later, Charlotte told me Oliver wasn’t thrilled with his mum’s talk either. He said the car and money were nice, but he didn’t want the wedding turning into a haggle. “I’m marrying Charlotte, not her dowry,” he told her. That thawed me a little. Oliver’s got his head on straight—he truly loves our girl. But Margaret won’t let up. The day before yesterday, she rang to ask about Charlotte’s dress, how many guests we’re bringing, and whether we’d be “adding anything substantial” to the dowry. I barely held back from telling her exactly what I thought.
Now I’m wondering: how do I handle this? On one hand, I don’t want to sour things with the future mother-in-law. A wedding’s a celebration, and I want Charlotte happy. But this tone—like we owe something—it riles me. Edward and I have worked our whole lives, raised Charlotte, given her an education, values, love. Isn’t that worth more than cars and flats? Shouldn’t the young couple build their own life? When we married, we started in a rented room and still made a family. This feels like being dragged into some auction.
Charlotte, my clever girl, tries to smooth things over. “Mum, don’t worry. Oliver and I will sort it. If needed, we’ll get a mortgage without any dowry nonsense.” But I see she’s uncomfortable too. She wants a joyful wedding, not a battleground. I’ve decided not to engage with Margaret anymore. Let her say what she likes—we’ll do what’s right. We’ll give Charlotte and Oliver what we promised and celebrate them. If she wants to measure wallets, that’s her problem.
Still, there’s a residue of bitterness. A wedding should be about love, not ledgers. I trust Charlotte and Oliver will be fine—they’re young, strong, and in love. As for the dowry—let Margaret keep her cars. Charlotte’s true dowry is her heart, her mind, her kindness. And with those, she’s worth her weight in gold in any family.
