The Mystery of the Promised Present
In the grand dining hall of a restaurant in central York, Emma and James’s wedding was in full swing. Guests laughed, music swelled like a river, and the newlyweds glowed with joy at the head of the table. Then came the gift-giving. First were Emma’s parents, presenting a plump envelope of cash with solemn pride. Next was James’s mother, Margaret, who humbly handed them a bouquet of roses before leaning in to whisper, “My real gift will come after the wedding.”—”What gift?” Emma asked, glancing at her husband.—”No idea what she’s on about,” James admitted, shrugging with a bemused smile. But Emma couldn’t have guessed the tangled web her mother-in-law was weaving.
Long before the wedding, Margaret had dropped cryptic hints: “I won’t give you some trifle. Don’t expect a present then—but later, I’ll astonish you!”—”Whatever you think best,” Emma had replied, uneasy.—”Mum, don’t fret,” James had soothed. “Just having you there is enough.”—”I’d never show up empty-handed,” Margaret had insisted. “But let’s keep this between us.”—”Of course,” James agreed, though Emma doubted her promise. She knew Margaret’s finances were shaky, but the couple had paid for the wedding themselves, sparing their families. Emma’s parents, despite their modest means, had scraped together fifteen thousand pounds for the newlyweds. At the reception, Margaret gave only flowers—barely noticed amid toasts and dancing—yet she shone in the spotlight, delivering lengthy speeches, basking in attention.
“You’ve no idea what I’ve planned,” Margaret murmured near the evening’s end, eyes twinkling slyly. “A surprise to knock your socks off—just not today.”—”No rush,” James said, squeezing Emma’s hand.—”I’m intrigued,” Emma admitted, curiosity prickling.—”Honestly, I’m clueless,” James said. “But the gift’s not the point. We’re happy, that’s what matters.” Emma nodded, yet the mystery gnawed at her. She prodded Margaret for hints, only to be met with a coy smile: “Patience, dear. Spoilers ruin the fun.”
Months passed, and the promised gift never materialized. What began as a joke soon grated on Emma. Eight months after the wedding, she finally mentioned it—only for Margaret to flare up: “So it’s all about money, is it? Not once have you asked if I need help!”—”If you do, just say,” Emma stammered, bewildered. But Margaret spun the moment into martyrdom, complaining to James about his wife’s “rudeness.”—”Drop it, love,” he pleaded. “She made a right scene.”—”She’s the one who teased us!” Emma protested.
After that, Emma avoided Margaret, speaking only when necessary—which only fueled the fire. “She clung to me expecting diamonds,” Margaret hissed to James. “Now she acts like I’m dirt!”—”That’s not true,” he defended.—”Then why won’t she visit? Why the cold shoulder?” Emma, hearing this, sighed: “Your mum’s impossible. First I’m too keen, now too distant. Next she’ll fault my blinking!”—”She thinks we only want her money,” James muttered.—”Funny, since she’s given zip,” Emma shot back. “My parents bring vegetables from their allotment, never arrive empty-handed.”—”Are you calling her cheap?” James bristled. “She’s my mother. Respect her.”—”Fine,” Emma snapped. “But she doesn’t just bring nothing—she leaves with Tupperware full of my cooking!”
The gift became a forbidden topic, yet rows simmered. Margaret, stoking the flames, nitpicked Emma’s every move while playing the saint to others: “We bend over backwards for her, and what thanks do I get? I nearly gave her my great-grandmother’s cameo—look how she repays me!” Listeners nodded, taken in by her act.
As their first anniversary neared, Margaret revived the suspense: “Prepare for something spectacular!” she declared, invited to a modest café dinner.—”Really, don’t trouble yourself,” Emma ventured.—”Noted. But I’ll decide, won’t I?” Margaret sneered. James, hearing this, exploded: “Why must you bait her? Let her do what she wants!”—”Exactly,” Emma retorted. “We’re still ‘enjoying’ last year’s phantom gift—who needs another?”
In the end, they agreed to drop it. For their cotton anniversary, they hosted a small gathering. Emma’s parents gifted a hand-embroidered tablecloth and linen; friends brought crystal glasses. Margaret arrived with a giant card, delivering a fifteen-minute sermon she deemed applause-worthy. “Mention gifts, and we’re done,” James warned afterward.—”Wasn’t planning to,” Emma said, exhausted.
But peace was short-lived. A month later, Margaret—hinting broadly about her upcoming birthday—demanded a premium smartphone. “So we’re taking orders now?” Emma scoffed.—”Mum needs a new phone. We can afford it,” James hedged.—”Fine,” Emma said flatly. “But my mum’s birthday’s next month. Gifts should match.” James winced at the math. They settled on a mid-range model, sparking Margaret’s fury. She blamed Emma’s “stinginess,” plotting revenge for such “ingratitude.”
