The Mother of the Bride Catches the Groom in a Compromising Position
Agatha, a sprightly 78-year-old, had been overjoyed that her daughter, Beatrice, had at last found happiness with her fiancé, Alistair. The wedding day had dawned bright, and Agatha had intended to present Alistair with a treasured family heirloom—her late husband’s silver pocket watch—before the ceremony began. But as she approached him, he moved swiftly away, whispering to the maid of honour, Penelope, before the pair slipped toward the back of the grand manor.
Curious, Agatha followed, her old bones protesting the haste. Peering through the cracked door of the lavatory, her heart clenched at what she saw.
“I can’t bear to wait any longer, darling,” Alistair murmured, drawing Penelope close.
“Not now,” Penelope chided lightly. “If we’re caught, all our plans will be for naught.”
“An affair?” Agatha pressed a hand to her mouth, horrified.
“Just one last time before I’m shackled to dull Beatrice,” Alistair scoffed.
“Patience, love,” Penelope purred. “A few months of marriage, then a divorce—think of the fortune you’ll claim! Half her estate, and not a penny less.”
Agatha stumbled back, sickened by their embrace in the mirror’s reflection. She rushed to warn Beatrice, but the ceremony had already begun.
At the reception, Beatrice took the stage, dedicating a tender ballad to Alistair, who gazed at her with feigned adoration. Agatha’s heart ached. She tried to pull Beatrice aside, but the whirl of festivities swept them apart.
Days later, as Alistair and Beatrice escorted Agatha to the train station, she feigned illness and returned to their home—where Penelope’s car sat ominously outside. Peering through the window, she saw them entwined upon the settee. Frantic, she rang Beatrice, who arrived moments later.
“They’re inside—carrying on shamelessly!” Agatha hissed.
Beatrice stormed in, only to find the pair innocently seated, discussing business. Alistair spun a tale of surprise—keys to a new countryside cottage, a gift for her. When Agatha insisted on the truth, he turned the blame, accusing her of meddling. Beatrice, torn, sided with him, leaving Agatha distraught.
The strain proved too much. Agatha collapsed, waking later in hospital. Still, Beatrice refused to believe her. In desperation, Agatha altered her will—cutting Beatrice off entirely. The rift deepened, weeks passing in silence—until the day Beatrice appeared at her door, tear-streaked and shattered.
“Mum… you were right.”
Agatha held her close, sorrow and relief mingling. The truth, though cruel, had set her daughter free at last.
