Long ago, in the quiet countryside of Sussex, I found myself wed to Edward, a good man of four-and-thirty years. His kin were tight-knit, which might seem warm, yet his mother, Mrs. Whitmore, had ever been one to overstep. From the first, she made plain her disdain for sharing “her boy.” I bore her barbed remarks with grace”Ah, well, sons do leave their mothers in the dust,” or “Best remember who cherished him first.” I held my tongue, though it near choked me.
On Edwards birthday, his family arranged supper at a fine establishment in Winchester. I dressed carefully, bearing a gift chosen with care, hoping for a pleasant evening. Yet upon arrival, his mother had already claimed the seat beside him. I took the other side, uncomplaining. But ere the first course was served, she rose, pointed at me, and cried, “Good heavens, must you cling so? Let the poor man breathe!” Then, with a smirk, she added, “Shift down, dear. A mother ought to sit with her own son on his special day.”
The table laughedEdward too.
Heat flooded my cheeks, but I held my peace, sliding aside as she near draped herself over him, as though he were her escort to a May Ball. Minutes passed, the merry chatter ringing hollow in my ears, till I could bear it no longer. I stood, took my reticule, and said, “I believe I shall take my leave. Happy birthday, Edward.”
Later, a furious note arrived from him, chiding me for causing a stir and shaming him before his family. His mothers missive followed: “Pardon if youre tender-heartedwe only mean to jest.”
Now Edward speaks not a word unless I beg forgiveness. Yet I wonderwas I truly wrong? Ought I to apologise for a slight I did not invite? The question lingers, even now.
