**Diary Entry**
The mother-in-law was weeping openly at the wedding, her sobs raw and unrestrained. Only she knew the reason why.
The crowd of guests cheered, chanting “Kiss! Kiss!” as their hands clapped in rhythm. Champagne fizzed in fluted glasses while the groom—hesitant, almost reluctant—pecked the bride’s cheek. Then, as if following a rehearsed script, they ducked beneath her veil and faked a passionate kiss—staged, awkward, utterly unconvincing. I saw right through it. There was no spark between them, none of that unspoken warmth that blossoms into real love. They giggled and whispered like children play-acting someone else’s wedding.
My dear friend Margaret was giving away her only daughter, Emily. She fluttered about nervously, dabbing her palms on her dress every few minutes. When the guests finally settled at their tables, she grabbed my wrist, her brow furrowed.
“Look at the mother of the groom,” she muttered. “She’s acting as though this is a funeral, not a wedding.”
I glanced around. I hadn’t noticed the groom’s mother before and wouldn’t have recognised her if Margaret hadn’t pointed her out—a woman in a grey dress with silver trim, tucked away at a corner table. Her face was drawn, as if she’d just been gutted by betrayal. Head bowed, she dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Her lips trembled, and every breath she took carried such quiet agony that even my own chest ached in sympathy.
“Perhaps she isn’t feeling well?” I offered, trying to be diplomatic.
“Oh, rubbish,” Margaret scoffed. “She’s terrified Emily will move into that flat of hers. The one his grandmother left him. Thinks my girl will ‘cling like a barnacle,’ mark my words.”
“You’re overthinking it,” I said lightly. “They’re barely married, and you’re already dividing property.” But unease prickled under my skin.
I couldn’t stop watching the woman. While guests laughed, ate, toasted—she touched neither her food nor her drink. She kept her gaze fixed downward. She didn’t even look at her son, who should have been the brightest star in her sky that evening.
When the chanting of “Kiss! Kiss!” rose again, the mother-in-law jerked her face toward the window, lips pressed so tight they blanched. I couldn’t bear it. I slipped over to her.
“Excuse me, but… you seem dreadfully upset. Is everything all right?”
She lifted her eyes. They were brimming—not with weakness, but with something deeper, something weathered and true.
“I can’t pretend,” she whispered. “Forgive me, but this is all a charade. My son… he doesn’t love that girl. Emily’s sweet, bright. She’s glowing—she doesn’t see what’s right in front of her. And he… he’s only marrying her to spite his ex.”
I froze. That wasn’t what I’d expected.
“Surely not… You’re certain?”
“He told me himself. Wanted to prove to her how ‘happy’ he was. I begged him not to—shouted, pleaded. But he’s stubborn. Thinks hurting someone else will dull his own pain.” A tear slipped free. “And I look at that girl, her eyes so full of hope… and he’s using her. It makes me sick.”
“Perhaps… given time…”
“I wish I could believe that,” she murmured. “But my conscience won’t allow it. I pity her. Truly. And my son… he’s a stranger to me now.”
I returned to my table in silence. Said nothing to Margaret.
Two days later, she called, voice brittle.
“Emily’s come home. Packed her things—won’t say a word. No tears, no shouting. Just… silence. I don’t understand. Everything was perfect!”
“I’ll be right over,” I said shortly and hung up.
As I drove, my knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. My heart ached for Emily. But more than that—for the mother-in-law. The one who’d watched her son shatter a life and been powerless to stop it. Margaret and Emily would heal, in time. They’d forget, move on.
But she—she would always remember. The day her son wore love like a costume. The day he wed not for joy, but for spite. And the day she, alone, had not clapped.
Because she couldn’t.
Because she knew.
