Carla sensed something odd the moment she stepped into the restaurant. It was too empty for a Friday evening, the lighting unnervingly dim, the maître d smiling too broadly. Peter, however, seemed his usual selfonly his fingers, laced with hers, trembled faintly.
“Your table,” the maître d said, pulling out a chair. Carla paused at the entrance of a private room. Hundreds of candles flickered in the darkness, casting eerie shadows over the pristine white tablecloth. At the centre stood a vase of deep red rosesher favourite. Soft music played in the background.
“Peter,” she breathed, “whats going on?” Instead of answering, he dropped to one knee. A ring glinted in his shaking fingers. “Carla Whitmore,” he said solemnly, “I thought long and hard about how to make this moment perfect. But then I realisedit doesnt matter where or how. Only one thing does. Will you marry me?”
She looked at his faceflushed with emotion, that stubborn lock of hair falling over his brow, his shy smileand felt her heart overflow with indescribable tenderness. “Yes,” she whispered. “Of course I will!”
The ring slid onto her finger. Carla clung to Peter, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne, and thought*this is happiness*. Simple and bright as a summers day. Yet barely a week later, their peace was shattered.
“What do you mean*planning it yourselves*?” snapped Margaret, adjusting her immaculate updo. “Absolutely not! A wedding needs experience, a womans wisdom. Ive already found a marvellous venue”
“Mum,” Peter interjected gently, “we appreciate your help, but we want to organise it ourselves.”
“Yourselves?” Margaret threw up her hands. “You havent a clue! Just look at my niece, Emily”
Carla watched in silence as her future mother-in-law paced their flat. Margaret prattled onabout traditions, propriety, the importance of “not embarrassing the family.” Between words, her sharp eyes darted around, assessing the decoras if already deciding what needed changing.
“Mum,” Peter tried again, “weve booked The White Willow. You know it?”
Margaret grimaced as if tasting something sour. “*The White Willow*? That new place? No, noonly The Empire will do! The lighting, the service! And the managers an old friend of mine”
“Mum,” Peters voice hardened, “*we* are paying for this wedding. And well celebrate where we choose.”
Margaret pressed her lips together, lifted her chin. “Fine. Do as you please. But dont say I didnt warn you.”
She left in a cloud of expensive perfume and the promise of a storm.
“Sorry,” Peter sighed, pulling Carla close. “Shes just enthusiastic.”
Carla stayed silent. A quiet voice inside whispered*this is only the beginning.*
And it was. Over the next weeks, an endless stream of critiques, hints, and veiled complaints followed. Margaret found fault with everythingthe flowers, the table arrangement. “*Peonies*?” She shook her head. “In *September*? No, only white lilies! And the arch must be grander. And the musiciansgood heavens, youre taking *them* seriously? I know a quartet from the Royal Academy”
Carla bit her tongue, leaning on her mothercalm, steady Eleanor. “Dont take it to heart,” shed say whenever Carla, exhausted from another “wedding battle,” came to vent. “Youre the bride. Its your choice. She just cant admit her sons grown up.”
But the real storm came over the cake.
“*Three tiers*?” Margaret brandished the bakery catalogue. “Where are the sugar flowers? The figurines?”
“Mum,” Peter said wearily, “we want something simple. Elegant.”
“*Simple*?” Margarets voice trembled. “Youd humiliate me in front of *everyone*? The son of a renowned architect, serving *school-dinner cake*?”
Carla couldnt hold back. “Margaret, lets be clear. This wedding is *ours*. Not yours.”
The room fell silent. Margaret paled, then flushed, and stood abruptly. “Fine,” she hissed. “I see Im *not wanted* here.”
The door slammed so hard the windows rattled.
Peter exhaled. “Well. Shes upset.”
Carla said nothing. A restless dread coiled in her chest.
Two days later, the storm broke.
At the bridal salon, Carla overheard the managers phone call: “Yes, Mrs. Whitmore, your gown will be ready. That cream shadealmost identical to the brides”
The world tilted. Carla fled, forgetting her fitting, and with shaking hands called her mother. “Mum,” her voice cracked, “shes *ruining* everythingshes bought a dress just like mine”
“Calm down,” Eleanors voice was steel. “Trust me. Ill handle it.”
*How?* But the line went dead.
Three days until the wedding, and Carla wasnt sure she even wanted it anymore.
The morning dawned grey with rain. Carla stood by the window, watching droplets race down the glass, her legs unsteady.
Behind her, the stylists fussed. “Carla, *keep still*,” the hairdresser chided, wrestling with a stubborn curl.
She barely heard them. Only one thought pulsed*what will Margaret wear today? Would she really dare?*
“Darling!” Eleanor swept in. “Let me see you.”
Carla turned. Her mothers hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, my *word*youre *stunning*!”
“Mum,” Carla searched her eyes, “did you?”
Eleanor only smiled. “Its *your* day. No one will spoil it.”
At the registry office, Carla moved through the ceremony like a ghostsolemn vows, Peters radiant gaze, fumbling with the ring.
“You may kiss the bride!”
Their first kiss as husband and wife was clumsyCarlas eyes kept darting through the crowd, searching for cream silk. But Margaret was nowhere.
“Shes going straight to the reception,” Peter whispered. “Said something about her hair”
Carla nodded. Inside, her nerves coiled tighter.
At The White Willow, applause greeted them. The venue was breathtakingwhite linens, crystal chandeliers, a sea of blooms. For a moment, Carla forgot her dread.
Then a black Mercedes pulled up.
Margaret emerged, resplendent in a cream gown, beaded and gleamingnearly a twin to the bridal dress.
Peter stiffened. “*Look*”
But before Margaret could take three steps, a waiterclumsy, apologeticcollided with her. A dark red stain bloomed across the delicate fabric.
“Oh, *terribly* sorry! Cherry couliswhat a *mess*!”
Margaret froze. Her face cycled through shock, fury, humiliation.
“IllIll *be back*,” she spat, fleeing to the car.
Carla glanced at Eleanorwho adjusted a centrepiece, the ghost of a smile on her lips.
“You know,” Peter murmured suddenly, “Im almost glad that happened.”
Carla blinked.
He sighed. “I see how she is. Always controlling, always *centre stage*. Even todayshe wanted to outshine *you*.” He squeezed her hand. “Im *done* with it.”
Carla leaned into him. Outside, the rain fell softly. And for the first time in weeks, she felt peace.
Margaret never returned. But the newlyweds danced, laughed, andfor oncefelt only joy.
As for the mother-in-laws dress? Well. Sometimes fate puts things right.
Even if it takes cherry coulis, a clumsy waiter, and the brides mother.
