**The Mother-in-Laws Dress**
Emily noticed something odd the moment she stepped into the restaurant. The place felt offfar too empty for a Friday night, the lighting oddly dim, the maître d grinning a little too widely. James, however, was his usual selfonly the slight tremor in his fingers, laced with hers, betrayed his nerves.
“Your table,” announced the maître d, pulling out a chair. Emily paused at the entrance to a private dining room. Hundreds of candles flickered in the dark, casting dancing shadows over the pristine white tablecloth. At the centre stood a vase of deep red rosesher favourite. Soft music played in the background.
“James,” Emily gasped, “whats all this?” Instead of answering, he dropped to one knee. A ring glinted in his trembling hand. “Emily Whitmore,” he said solemnly, “I thought long and hard about how to make this moment special. But then I realisedit doesnt matter where or how. Only one thing matters. Will you marry me?”
She stared at his face, flushed with emotion, that stubborn lock of hair falling over his forehead, his shy smileand felt her heart swell with tenderness. “Yes,” she whispered. “Of course I will!”
The ring slid onto her finger. Emily hugged James, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne, and thought*this is happiness*. Simple and bright as a summers day. Yet, just a week later, their peace was shaken.
“What do you mean*organising it yourselves*?” Mrs. Harrington huffed, adjusting her immaculate updo. “Absolutely not! A wedding needs experience, a womans touch. Ive already picked out a marvellous venue”
“Mum,” James interjected gently, “we appreciate your help, but we want to plan it our way.”
“*Your* way?” Mrs. Harrington threw up her hands. “You havent a clue! Look at my niece, Charlotte”
Emily stayed quiet as her future mother-in-law paced their flats living room. Mrs. Harrington prattled onabout traditions, propriety, the importance of “not embarrassing the family.” Between remarks, her sharp eyes darted around, assessing the decoras if deciding what needed changing.
“Mum,” James tried again, “weve chosen a venue. The White Willow, you know it?”
Mrs. Harrington winced as if struck by a toothache. “*The White Willow*? That new place? No, no, only the *Imperial*! The lighting, the service! And the managers an old friend of mine”
“Mum,” Jamess voice hardened, “*were* paying for this wedding. And well celebrate where we like.”
Mrs. Harrington pressed her lips together, chin jutting. “Fine. Have it your way. Dont say I didnt warn you.”
She left in a cloud of expensive perfume and the promise of storms to come. “Sorry,” James murmured, pulling Emily close. “Shes just enthusiastic.”
Emily said nothing. A quiet voice whispered*this is only the beginning*.
And it was. In the weeks that followed, an endless parade of arguments, hints, and veiled complaints began. Mrs. Harrington found fault with everythingthe flowers, the table settings. “*Pink peonies?*” She shook her head. “In *September*? No, only white lilies! And the arch must be grander. And the musiciansgoodness, are you *serious* about that lot? I know a splendid quartet from the Royal Academy”
Emily bit her tongue, leaning on her mothercalm, steady Mrs. Whitmorefor support. “Dont take it to heart,” shed say whenever Emily, exhausted from another “wedding battle,” came to vent. “Youre the bride; its your choice. She just wont admit her sons grown up.”
But the real storm brewed over the cake. “*Three tiers?*” Mrs. Harrington scoffed, flipping through the bakery catalogue. “Where are the sugar flowers? The figurines?”
“Mum,” James sighed, “we want something simple. Elegant.”
“*Simple?*” Her voice quivered. “Youll humiliate me in front of *everyone*! Theyll saythe son of a renowned architect, with a cake fit for a *school hall*!”
Emily snapped. “Mrs. Harrington, lets be clear. This wedding is *ours*. Not yours.”
Silence fell. Mrs. Harrington paled, then flushed, rising abruptly. “Very well,” she hissed. “I see Im *unwanted* here. Do as you please!”
The door slammed so hard the windows rattled. “Well,” James sighed, “shes upset.”
Emily stayed quiet, unease prickling her skin.
Two days later, the storm broke. At the bridal boutique, Emily overheard the managers phone call: “Yes, Mrs. Harrington, your dress will be ready. A lovely shadealmost *identical* to the brides”
The world tilted. Emily fled, forgetting her fitting, and dialled her mother with shaking hands. “Mum,” she choked out, “shes trying to ruin everything Shes bought the same dress”
“Calm down,” Mrs. Whitmores voice was oddly firm. “Trust me. Ill handle it.”
“How?”
“Just wait.”
The call ended. Emily stood in the street, hopelessness swelling inside her. Three days until the wedding, and she wasnt sure she wanted it anymore.
The morning of the wedding dawned grey with rain. Emily stared through the window, legs trembling, as hairdressers and makeup artists buzzed behind her.
“Emily, *hold still*,” the stylist grumbled, wrestling with a stubborn curl.
She barely heard. One thought consumed her*what dress will Mrs. Harrington wear? Would she really dare?*
“Darling!” Mrs. Whitmore swept in. “Let me see you.”
Emily turned. Her mother gasped, hands clasped to her cheeks. “Good heavens, youre *stunning*!”
“Mum,” Emily searched her eyes, “*did* you?”
Mrs. Whitmore smiled faintly. “Dont worry. This is *your* day.”
At the registry office, nerves blurred everythingsolemn vows, Jamess radiant smile, camera flashes. The ring stucktheir hands shookbut finally, it slid home.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife!”
Their first kiss as newlyweds was distractedEmilys eyes darted through the crowd, searching for cream silk. But Mrs. Harrington was nowhere.
“Shes going straight to the reception,” James murmured. “Said something about her hair”
Emily nodded, tension coiling tighter.
At *The White Willow*, applause greeted them. The venue shonecrystal chandeliers, white linens, a sea of blooms. For a moment, Emily forgot her dread.
Then a black *Bentley* glided up outside. Emily gripped Jamess hand. “*Look*”
Mrs. Harrington emerged, regal in a cream gown, beaded and nearly *identical* to the brides.
“*See*” James muttered.
But before she could sweep inside, a waiter suddenly collided with her, tipping a tray of dark red sauce onto the immaculate silk.
“Oh, *terribly* sorry!” He dabbed uselessly with a napkin. “Cherry couliswhat a *dreadful* mess!”
Mrs. Harrington froze, face cycling through shock, fury, and horror.
“IllIll be back,” she stammered, retreating to the car.
Emily glanced at her motherserenely adjusting centrepieces, the ghost of a smile on her lips.
“You know,” James said suddenly, “Im almost glad that happened.”
Emily stared.
He offered a tired smile. “I see how she is. Always controlling, always *right*. Even todayshe had to outshine you.” He squeezed her hand. “Im *done* with it.”
Emily leaned into him. Outside, rain fell softly, but inside, a strange calm settled.
Mrs. Harrington never returned. The newlyweds danced, laughed, toastedhappy, truly happy.
As for *that* dress? Well sometimes fate sets things right. Even if it takes cherry coulis, a clumsy waiter, and the brides mother.
