**The Mother-in-Laws Dress**
I knew something was off the moment I stepped into the restaurant. It was too quiet for a Friday night, the lighting oddly dim, the maître d smiling a little too eagerly. Peter, though, seemed his usual selfonly his fingers, laced through mine, trembled slightly.
“Your table,” the maître d said, pulling out a chair, and I paused at the entrance to a private dining room. Hundreds of candles flickered in the dark, casting strange shadows over the crisp white tablecloth. At the centre stood a vase of deep red rosesmy favourite. Soft music played in the background.
“Peter,” I gasped, “whats going on?” Instead of answering, he dropped to one knee. A ring glinted in his shaking fingers. “Emily Whitaker,” 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?”
I looked at his facehis earnest eyes, that stubborn lock of hair falling over his forehead, his shy smileand felt my heart swell with an indescribable warmth. “Yes,” I whispered. “Of course I will.”
The ring slid onto my finger. I hugged Peter, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne, and thought*this* is happiness. Simple and clear as a summers day.
But just a week later, our peace was shaken.
“On your *own*?” Margaret scoffed, fussing with her already-impeccable updo. “Absolutely not! A wedding takes experience, feminine wisdom. Ive already picked out a *wonderful* venue”
“Mum,” Peter cut in gently, “we appreciate your help, but we want to plan it ourselves.”
“Yourselves?” Margaret threw her hands up. “You dont understand! Look at my niece, Rebecca”
I stayed silent as my future mother-in-law paced our flats living room. She prattled on about traditions, about “not embarrassing the family,” all while casting quick, critical glances at our décoras if mentally noting what needed changing.
“Mum,” Peter tried again, “weve chosen a venue. The White Willow, you know it?”
Margaret winced like shed bitten into something sour. “*The White Willow*? That new place? No, nothe *Imperial*! The lighting, the service! And the managers an old friend of mine”
“Mum,” Peters voice hardened, “*were* paying for this wedding. Well celebrate where we want.”
Margaret pressed her lips together, lifted her chin. “Fine. Have it your way. Dont say I didnt warn you.”
She left in a cloud of expensive perfume and the unmistakable tension of an impending storm.
Peter sighed, pulling me close. “Sorry. Shes just passionate.”
I said nothing. A small voice inside whispered*this is just the beginning.*
And it was. Over the next weeks, an endless stream of critiques and passive-aggressive comments followed. Margaret hated everythingthe flowers, the table settings. “*Pink* peonies?” Shed shake her head. “In *September*? No, white lilies! And the arch should be more elegant. The musiciansgood grief, youre seriously hiring *them*? I know a *marvellous* quartet from the Royal Academy”
I bit my tongue, leaning on my mothercalm, sensible Grace. “Dont take it to heart,” shed say whenever I came to vent after another “wedding battle.” “Youre the bride. Its *your* day. She just cant admit her sons grown up.”
But the real storm came over the cake.
“*This*?” Margaret waved the bakery catalogue. “*Three* tiers? Where are the sugar flowers? The figurines?”
“Mum,” Peter said wearily, “we want something simple. Elegant.”
“*Simple*?” Her voice cracked. “Youll humiliate me in front of *everyone*! People will talkthe architects son, and they serve *school-hall cake*!”
I snapped. “Margaret, lets be clear. This is *our* wedding. Not yours.”
Silence. Margaret paled, then flushed, and stood abruptly. “Fine,” she said coldly. “I see Im not needed here. Do as you like.”
She slammed the door so hard the windows rattled.
Peter exhaled. “Well. Shes upset.”
I stayed quiet, unease prickling under my skin.
Two days later, the storm broke. At the bridal boutique, I overheard the manager on the phone: “Yes, Mrs. Whitaker, your dress will be ready. Such a lovely shadealmost *identical* to the brides”
My vision blurred. I stumbled out, forgetting my fitting, and called Mum with shaking hands. “Mum,” my voice cracked, “shesshes trying to ruin everything. She bought the same dress”
“Calm down,” Mums voice was oddly firm. “Dont cry, love. Ill handle it.”
“How?”
“Just trust me.”
The call ended. I stood in the street, despair swelling inside me. Three days until the wedding, and suddenly, I didnt even want it anymore.
The morning of the wedding, rain pattered against the windows. I stared out, legs trembling, while the hairdresser fussed over a stubborn curl.
“Emily, keep still!”
I barely heard her. All I could think*what dress will Margaret wear? Will she really do it?*
“Darling!” Mum swept in. “Let me see you.” I turned. She clasped her hands to her chest. “Oh, youre *beautiful*!”
“Mum,” I searched her eyes, “did you?”
She just smiled. “Dont worry. Its *your* day. No one will spoil it.”
At the registry office, nerves made everything a blursolemn vows, Peters radiant smile, camera flashes. The ring stuckour fingers shookbut finally, it slid into place.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife!”
Our first kiss as spouses was clumsyI kept glancing around for a cream-coloured dress. But Margaret was nowhere in sight.
“Shes going straight to the reception,” Peter murmured. “Said something about her hair”
I nodded, stomach tight.
At the White Willow, applause greeted us. The venue was breathtakingwhite linens, crystal chandeliers, flowers everywhere. For a moment, I forgot my dread.
Then a black Rolls-Royce pulled up.
Margaret stepped out, regal in a cream dress, beaded and nearly *identical* to mine.
Peter stiffened. “Look”
Before she could take two steps, a waiter appearedand *collided* with her, splashing dark red cherry sauce down her pristine gown.
“Oh, *dreadfully* sorry, madam!” He dabbed frantically. “What a *terrible* accident!”
Margaret froze. Her face cycled through shock, fury, humiliation.
“IIll be *back*,” she hissed, then fled to the car.
I glanced at Mumnow innocently adjusting centrepieces. Just the *ghost* of a smile played on her lips.
“You know,” Peter said suddenly, “Im almost glad that happened.”
I blinked.
He sighed. “I see how she is. Always controlling, always needing the spotlight. Even today, she wanted to upstage you.”
“Peter”
“No. Im tired of it.” He squeezed my hand. “Todays about *us*.”
I leaned into him. Outside, the rain fell softly, but inside, I feltoddly at peace.
Margaret never returned. We danced, laughed, toastedhappy, truly happy.
As for her dress? Well sometimes fate puts things right. Even if it takes cherry sauce, a clumsy waiter, and the brides mother.
