The mother-in-law was sobbing uncontrollably right at the wedding. Only she knew why.
The crowd of guests cheered “Kiss!” and clapped eagerly, champagne fizzing in their glasses, while the groom shyly pecked the bride on the cheek. Then, as if following a script, they ducked under the veil and faked a passionate kiss—staged, clumsy, almost theatrical. I saw it all. There was no spark between them, the kind that kindles true intimacy. They giggled and whispered like actors in someone else’s wedding.
My closest friend, Margaret, was giving away her only daughter, Emily. She fluttered about nervously, wiping her palms on her dress every few minutes. When the guests settled, she tugged my sleeve with a frown:
“Just look at the mother of the groom. Like it’s a funeral, not her son’s wedding.”
I glanced around. I’d never met 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 embroidery. She sat alone at a far corner table, her face grim, as if she’d just been betrayed. Head bowed, she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. Her lips trembled, and every breath carried such pain it made my own chest ache.
“Maybe she’s unwell?” I suggested carefully.
“Unwell? Hardly!” Margaret scoffed. “She’s fretting over her flat! Worried my Emily will move in with the baby and take it from her. The lad’s got a three-bed from his gran, and now she thinks my girl will sink her claws into it.”
“You’re jumping ahead—they’re not even married yet, and you’re already dividing property,” I joked, though the tension lingered.
I kept watching the woman. While guests laughed, ate, and toasted, she didn’t touch her food or champagne. Didn’t lift her gaze. Not even when her son—who should’ve been the centre of her world that night—spoke.
When another round of “Kiss!” echoed through the hall, she jerked away toward the window, lips pressed white. I couldn’t stand it anymore and quietly approached her.
“Excuse me… you seem terribly upset. Is everything alright?”
The woman looked up. Tears brimmed in her eyes, but not from weakness—from deep, raw pain.
“I can’t pretend,” she whispered. “Forgive me, but this is all a farce. My son… he doesn’t love that girl. Emily’s sweet, bright. She’s happy—she doesn’t see it. But him? He’s doing this to spite his ex.”
I was stunned. Not what I expected.
“That can’t be… you’re certain?”
“He told me himself. Wanted to show his ex how ‘happy’ he is. I begged him, shouted, pleaded with him not to. But he’s stubborn. Thinks hurting others will dull his own pain. And when I look at Emily… she’s glowing, believing in love with her whole heart. And he… he’s playing at revenge. It makes me sick.”
“People grow into love, though. Maybe it’ll change?”
“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 returned to my table without a word. Didn’t tell Margaret. But two days later, she called.
“Emily’s come home. Took her things, won’t say a word about it. No tears, no shouting—just silence. I don’t understand. Everything was perfect!”
“I’m on my way,” I said tersely, hanging up.
I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles whitened. My heart ached for Emily. But even more for that mother-in-law—for the woman who knew her son was breaking someone else’s life and could do nothing. Margaret and Emily would forget, in time. Move on. Find others, learn to trust again.
But her? She’d remember forever. The day her son wore love like a costume. The day he married—not for love, but spite. And the day she alone didn’t clap. Because she couldn’t. Because she knew the truth.
