The Mother of the Bride Watches the Groom Slip Away
Edith, 78, meant to gift her daughter’s fiancé a precious heirloom when she spotted him slinking toward the loo with a bridesmaid. She trailed behind, and what unfolded sent her rushing to stop the wedding in its tracks.
That morning, Edith had been overjoyed. Her daughter Beatrice, 50, was moments away from marrying the man of her dreams, Alistair. Edith clutched her late husband’s pearl cufflinks, intending to give them to Alistair before the ceremony. But he strode off too quickly, forcing her aching knees to hurry after him. She watched as he leaned toward Emily, a bridesmaid and his business partner, murmuring something secretive. Then, the pair vanished toward the back of the pub.
Too curious to ignore it, Edith crept on tiptoe until she saw them duck into the gents’ together. She nudged the door open a crack—and her heart plummeted.
“I can’t hold back any longer, love,” Alistair growled, pulling Emily close by the waist.
“Not here, darling,” Emily trilled. “If we’re caught, the whole scheme falls apart.”
“An affair?” Edith pressed against the wall, stunned.
“Just one last time before I’m shackled to dull Beatrice,” Alistair added.
“Patience, sweetheart. A few months of marriage, then divorce her—think of the payout! Millions in property and pounds… but only if you keep your hands to yourself for now.”
Edith peeked again. In the mirror, they were locked in a heated embrace.
“No—stop, Alistair, we mustn’t—” Emily gasped between kisses. “The guests will notice!”
“Not until you promise to meet me tonight,” he insisted. “Same as always—after Beatrice is at work.”
Emily giggled, surrendering to another kiss. Sickened, Edith fled to warn her daughter—Alistair was nothing but a gold-digger.
She burst into the dining hall, but Beatrice was gone. The toastmaster’s voice cut through the chatter.
“Before we proceed, the bride has a surprise for the groom!”
Beatrice took the mic, smiling. “This is unconventional,” she admitted, “…but after waiting half my life for the right man, I want to dedicate this to him.”
A soft melody swelled as Beatrice sang a love ballad. The room fell silent. When she finished, applause erupted. Alistair swept her into an embrace, gazing at her like she hung the moon—and Edith’s stomach twisted.
“What a moment!” the toastmaster cheered. “Now, to the dancefloor for the newlyweds’ first waltz!”
Edith shoved through the crowd. “Beatrice, listen—it’s about Alistair.”
“What about him? Is something wrong?”
“It’s—oh, darling, I don’t know how to say this—”
“Mum, not now. After the dance, alright?”
“No, Beatrice, please—!”
“Ready?” Emily materialised, arm looping through Beatrice’s. “Alistair’s waiting.”
Resplendent in ivory silk, Beatrice floated toward the ballroom, blissfully unaware. Edith stood paralysed, unable to shatter her joy.
She endured the festivities in silent torment. The only way to expose them? Beatrice had to catch them herself.
On Monday, Alistair and Beatrice drove Edith to Heathrow for her flight home. His sugary affection made her queasy.
“Go ahead,” Edith said at check-in. “I’ll follow with the bags.”
Alistair left. Alone with Beatrice at last, Edith nearly confessed—but stuck to her plan.
Once they’d gone, she hailed a cab straight to Beatrice’s house. Emily’s silver Mini sat outside, bonnet still warm.
Perfect. Edith dialled Beatrice.
“Love, my flight’s cancelled,” she lied. “I’m at yours—I feel faint. Come quickly.”
“Blimey! I’ll send Alistair—”
“No! You must come. It’s urgent.”
Beatrice sighed. “Alright. Ten minutes.”
Edith peered through the window. At first—nothing. Then the door opened, and Alistair dragged Emily inside, mouths colliding. They tumbled onto the sofa, limbs tangled.
Edith checked the road—no Beatrice. She glanced back, revolted, as their hands wandered—
Footsteps. Beatrice’s car screeched to a halt.
“Mum! Are you ill?”
“No. But your husband and Emily—they’re in there. On the sofa.”
“WHAT?”
“I heard them at the wedding. I didn’t tell you because—oh, love, I couldn’t ruin your day.”
Beatrice gaped. “Alistair and—Emily? She’s always been so kind! How could I not know?”
“See for yourself.” Edith pointed.
Beatrice wiped her eyes, stormed inside—
And froze.
The sofa was empty. Alistair and Emily sat primly, cups of tea in hand.
“Beatrice?” Alistair blinked. “Emily and I were discussing a client meeting—I’m working from home this week, remember?”
“Liar!” Edith jabbed a finger. “I saw you snogging!”
“Snogging?” Emily recoiled. “Good grief—you think we’re carrying on?”
“Shut it,” Beatrice snapped. “Mum saw you at the wedding. And now here. You insisted on joint accounts—I see why now. You married me for money.”
“Rubbish!” Alistair scoffed. “Marriage is sharing. What’s mine is yours. Your mother’s mistaken—Emily’s just a colleague. I thought you trusted me.”
“I do, but why would Mum lie? I—I don’t understand.”
“Then let me prove it.” Alistair dug into his pocket and dropped keys into her palm. “Our new house. Final payment done. Emily helped me plan a surprise. Now you’ve spoiled it.”
“He’s lying!” Edith cried, but Beatrice clutched the keys, trembling.
“You… bought us a home?”
“Yes! I’d meant to blindfold you, lead you to the garden… But perhaps I’ll live there alone. What’s the point if you don’t trust me?”
He snatched the keys, stormed off.
“Wait!” Beatrice chased him. “I believe you—but Mum wouldn’t invent this!”
Alistair whirled around. “I’ve shown you proof. If you still doubt me, this marriage is doomed.”
“Please—I love you!”
“And I you. But if you truly think I’d cheat, say so. I’ll pack my things and never return.”
“No! Forgive me!” Beatrice clung to him as Edith seethed.
“See?” Emily smirked. “Why can’t you let your daughter be happy?”
“You vile creature—denying the truth!”
“You’re delusional, Edith. Perhaps you need spectacles.”
Edith’s pulse roared. Pain exploded in her chest. The world dimmed—the last thing she heard was ambulance sirens wailing.
At hospital, doctors confirmed a heart attack.
“You gave me such a fright,” Beatrice whispered, embracing her.
“I’ll recover faster if you ditch that swindler.”
Beatrice groaned. “Mum, stop. You misjudged him.”
“Wake up! That house story? Manipulation. Check your prenup—he’s after your fortune.”
“Enough! I won’t punish him for crimes he didn’t commit.”
“Fine.” Edith grabbed her phone. “Solicitor? I’m revising my will. Everything goes to charity. Beatrice inherits nothing. Freeze her accounts. Immediately. Cheers.”
“You’re joking!” Beatrice gasped.
“I’ve no choice. I won’t fund that leech.”
“Fine! If you cut me off, consider me dead to you!”
The weeks that followed were bleak. Post-surgery, Edith returned to an empty house. She called daily—no answer. Until, one evening, the doorbell rang.
Beatrice stood there, eyes raw.
“Oh, darling—” Edith reached for her.
“It’s Alistair,” Beatrice choked. “You were right.”
Edith held her as she wept. However shattered her heart, at least that grasping cad was gone for good.
