The mother-in-law was sobbing uncontrollably right in the middle of the wedding. And only she knew why.
The crowd of guests cheered “Bitter!” with merry laughter, clapping their hands as champagne fizzed in their glasses. The groom, a bit sheepish, pecked the bride on the cheek. Then, as if following a script, they ducked under the veil for a staged, awkward, almost theatrical kiss—more like a performance than a real moment. I saw it all. There was none of that electric spark that comes with true intimacy. They giggled and whispered like actors playing roles at someone else’s wedding.
My dear friend Margaret was giving away her only daughter, Emily. She flitted about, fussing, wiping her palms on her dress every other minute. Once the guests settled at their tables, she tugged my sleeve with a frown.
“Look at the mother of the groom. Acting like it’s a funeral, not a wedding.”
I glanced around. I hadn’t seen the groom’s mother before and wouldn’t have picked her out of the crowd if Margaret hadn’t pointed her out—a woman in a grey dress with silver accents, sitting alone at a corner table, face pinched like she’d just been betrayed. Hunched over, she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. Her lips trembled, and every shaky breath carried so much pain it made my own chest ache.
“Maybe she isn’t feeling well?” I offered, trying to be diplomatic.
“Rubbish!” Margaret scoffed. “She’s just fretting over her flat! Thinks my Emily will swoop in and claim it now they’re married. Her son inherited that three-bed from his gran, and she’s convinced my girl’s after it like a hawk after a mouse.”
“Oh, come off it, they’re not even married yet and you’re divvying up square footage,” I joked, but the tension lingered.
I kept watching the woman. While the guests laughed, ate, raised toasts—she touched neither her salad nor her champagne. Didn’t lift her eyes. Not even to her son, who should’ve been the centre of her world that evening.
When another chorus of “Bitter!” rang out, the mother-in-law jerked her face toward the window, lips pressed so tight they paled. I couldn’t take it anymore and quietly slipped over to her.
“Excuse me, you seem… terribly upset. Is everything all right?”
She looked up at me. Her eyes brimmed—not with weakness, but real, raw grief.
“I can’t pretend,” she whispered. “Forgive me, but all this—it’s a sham. My son… he doesn’t love that girl. Emily’s sweet, bright. She’s happy, blind to the truth. But he… he’s only marrying her to spite his ex.”
I blinked, thrown. Not what I expected.
“That can’t be. You’re sure?”
“He told me himself. Wanted to show his ex how ‘happy’ he is. I begged him, shouted, pleaded—but he’s stubborn. Thinks inflicting pain mends his own. And when I look at Emily… her eyes shine, she believes in this love with her whole heart. But he… he’s punishing someone else. It makes me sick.”
“Maybe things will change? People grow into love…”
“I wish I could believe that,” she said quietly. “But my conscience won’t let me. I pity her. So much. And my son… he’s a stranger now.”
I walked back to my table in silence. Said nothing to Margaret. But two days later, she called me.
“Emily’s back. 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, hanging up.
I gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, heart aching for Emily. But even more for that mother-in-law. For a woman who knew her son was wrecking someone else’s life and couldn’t stop it. Margaret and Emily would move on, eventually. Forget. Learn to trust again.
But her? She’d always remember. The day her son treated love like a prop. The day he married—not for love, but spite. The day she, alone in that room, couldn’t bring herself to clap. Because she knew. And knowing was worse.
