The mother-in-law wept bitterly right at the wedding. And only she knew why.
The crowd of guests chanted “Kiss!” merrily, clapping their hands as champagne fizzed in their glasses. The groom shyly pecked the bride on the cheek. Then, as if following a script, they hid beneath the veil and mimed a passionate kiss—staged, awkward, almost theatrical. I saw it all. There was none of that spark that kindles true intimacy. They giggled, whispering as if acting out someone else’s wedding.
My dearest friend, Margaret, was marrying off her only daughter—Emily. She fluttered about anxiously, wiping her palms on her dress every other minute. When the guests took their seats, she tugged my sleeve with a frown:
“Look at how the mother-in-law’s carrying on. Like it’s not her son’s wedding but a bloody funeral.”
I glanced around. I hadn’t seen the groom’s mother before and couldn’t even pick her out among the crowd. Only when Margaret pointed to the woman in the grey dress with silver trim did I realise—that was her. She sat alone at the far table, face dark as storm clouds, as if she’d just been betrayed. Head bowed, she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Her lips trembled, and every breath carried such sorrow that even my chest ached.
“Maybe she’s feeling poorly?” I suggested, trying to be kind.
“Oh, don’t be daft!” Margaret scoffed. “She’s worried about her flat! Thinks my Emily will move in with the baby and never leave. Her boy inherited a three-bed from his gran, and now she’s certain Emily’ll cling to it like a limpet.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself. They’re not even wed yet, and you’re divvying up square footage,” I joked, but the tension lingered.
I kept watching the woman. While guests laughed, ate, toasted—she touched neither salad nor champagne. Never lifted her gaze. Not even to her son, who should’ve been the centre of her world that evening.
When the chant of “Kiss!” rose again, his mother jerked toward the window, lips blanched from how hard she clenched her teeth. I couldn’t take it anymore and quietly approached her.
“Excuse me… you seem awfully upset. Is everything alright?”
She looked up. Her eyes brimmed with tears—not of fragility, but of real, lived pain.
“I can’t pretend,” she whispered. “Forgive me, but this… it’s all a farce. My boy… he doesn’t love that girl. Emily’s sweet, bright. She’s happy—she doesn’t see it. But he… he’s only marrying to spite his ex.”
I was stunned. Hadn’t expected such honesty.
“Surely not… You’re certain?”
“He told me himself. Wanted to show his ex how ‘happy’ he is. I begged him, shouted, pleaded not to do it. But he’s stubborn. Thinks you can cure your own hurt by hurting others. And when I look at that girl—her eyes are alight, she believes in love with her whole heart. But him? He’s just punishing someone else. And it makes me sick.”
“But… people grow into love, don’t they? Feelings can—”
“I’d like to believe that,” she said bleakly. “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 in silence. Said nothing to Margaret. But two days later, she called me.
“Emily’s come home. Took her things, won’t say a word. No tears, no shouting—just silence. I don’t understand. Everything was perfect!”
“I’m on my way,” I said shortly and hung up.
I drove to hers, gripping the wheel until my knuckles turned white. My heart ached for Emily. But even more—for that mother-in-law. For the woman who knew her son was ruining a life, helpless to stop it. Margaret and Emily, in time, would forget. Move on. Meet others. Learn to trust again.
But her? She’d always remember. The day her son treated love like a mask. The day he married—not for love, but revenge. And the day she, alone among them all, couldn’t bring herself to clap. Because she knew the truth.
