Have you ever watched a wedding fireworks display from a hundred meters away, clutching an open bottle of champagne, sitting on a bench by the city waterfront?
It’s a beautiful sight! Unless, of course, you’re the bride, and your groom is still back at the restaurant, watching the pricey spectacle alongside his “mommy.” That’s exactly what happened at my wedding. My loyal friend, who doubled as my maid of honor, was by my side. We drowned our sorrows in sparkling wine, wondering: how could a wedding go on without one of its main characters, and who gave the go-ahead for the fireworks when the bride had been AWOL for twenty minutes?
They were against the fireworks from the start! James resisted halfheartedly, but his mother threw a fit when she found out about the “Blazing Heart” pyrotechnic show listed as a key part of the wedding program:
— Heaven forbid—such a waste of money! Who needs it? What a foolish idea!
It stung because I wanted it, and the “foolish idea” was mine. But I swallowed my pride—at that point, I still believed we’d get along. Let me start from the beginning.
I owe an apology to my mother, whom I sidelined from the wedding preparations. She understood my embarrassment and left all the planning to my mother-in-law. She even fell ill and didn’t attend the wedding.
You see, I was born and raised in the countryside. My mother rarely left our village, except maybe to buy seeds at the market. James’s family, on the other hand, was urban to the core—city dwellers for generations who probably thought cows delivered milk straight to cans and hay grew in “hayfields,” magically bundling itself into bales.
It’s no wonder my mother felt uneasy around my new relatives. They only met once, when James’s family descended on our village, trying to impress who-knows-who with their fancy SUVs and loud outfits. They succeeded, though—the village grannies still gossip about what a catch “Polly snagged.” So, my mother stayed away from both the wedding and its planning. I was grateful at the time, but now I’m deeply ashamed for shutting her out.
My mother-in-law, Elizabeth, must have been thrilled when she realized she’d be calling the shots. Out of politeness, I agreed with her on nearly everything—except, of course, those doomed fireworks. It’s hard to argue with someone footing the entire wedding bill. Plus, we were still on good terms then. From the moment we met, she struck me as a woman whose only concern was her son’s happiness. She even took my hand that first day, looked into my eyes, and whispered:
— Don’t worry, if anything happens, I’ll always be there.
Unfortunately, she’s always there now, even when nothing’s happening. And while she cares about her son’s happiness, she couldn’t care less about anyone else’s—including mine.
I first noticed Elizabeth’s overbearing presence during the wedding planning, but I convinced myself it was temporary. The first red flag was the guest list. How did none of my friends make the cut? When I protested, Elizabeth snapped:
— It’s your own fault—why did you wait until the last minute?
The last minute?! Was I supposed to hand her the list before I even met her son? After a struggle, I managed to secure six spots for my closest friends. I had to choose who I wanted most at my wedding, all while inviting almost none of my relatives. Who was there to invite? Most live far away, and in the city, I only had my third cousin Victor and his quiet young wife—they were the only ones from my side.
James’s family, on the other hand, showed up in droves, as if he didn’t even know half of them. They flocked to the event like pigeons to crumbs. I blame myself for letting Elizabeth see I was self-conscious about my rural roots.
By the way, my mother-in-law’s full name is Elizabeth Peterson, not just “mother-in-law,” as if she’s some inanimate object (though that’s debatable).
The moment I admitted I was clueless about wedding planning, Elizabeth stopped discussing anything with me. I was just being honest: the first wedding I’d ever attend would be my own. When I learned most decisions were being made behind my back, I called her and politely hinted I’d like to hear about my wedding’s details sooner than never. She didn’t appreciate my wit. She scolded me like a schoolgirl for my ingratitude, then launched into a story about her own wedding, which—surprise—her mother-in-law had organized. Unlike me, she claimed to be “eternally grateful” for being spared the “dreadful hassle of wedding planning.” Then she added:
— If you even understand what I’m talking about!
I understood perfectly but decided to double-check with James that evening, casually asking:
— Did your mom’s mother-in-law handle everything for their wedding too?
He blushed, then reluctantly admitted his mother never wore a wedding dress. James’s father vanished when he learned Elizabeth was pregnant, and every man in her life since was, as I gathered, emotionally crushed by her within months.
Wonderful! Why was she lying to me about a mother-in-law she likely never met? Did she think I wouldn’t find out? I concluded Elizabeth Peterson was a pathological liar. Still, I felt sorry for her—left alone during pregnancy, she raised James with a will of iron. Without her strength, I wouldn’t be fluttering with excitement for my wedding to such a great guy. So, I resolved not to hold a grudge—at least not yet. We’d see what happened after the wedding.
The morning didn’t start with coffee. I don’t know what got into her! I hope it wasn’t intentional, but it’s hard to believe otherwise.
On the wedding morning, Elizabeth called James, claiming she’d forgotten to buy a dress because of our wedding’s demands. I overheard him, retreating to the bathroom, trying to convince her she had a wardrobe full of suitable clothes—which was true. But Elizabeth was relentless. James always caved to his mother, and this time was no exception. I stared at him, wide-eyed with shock.
— It’s our wedding day! — I hissed.
— We’ll just buy a dress, and I’ll be back in a flash! — James pleaded, but he was clearly on the verge of panic. With little time before the ceremony, he had to race across town and scour stores for a dress to satisfy his mother’s picky taste.
When the door slammed behind him, I collapsed onto a stool, unsure what to do. I was overwhelmed with the urge to ditch the wedding, hail a taxi to the bus station, and buy a ticket back to my village. I wanted to go home to my mom, lock myself in my room, and stay there until everyone forgot this ridiculous mess. But I forced myself to stay strong. I was marrying James, not his mother! Roslyn, after all! Though, I was starting to believe that less and less.
My friend Lily, my maid of honor, saved the day. She arrived as planned, and since James and I weren’t fans of being the center of attention, we’d skipped traditions like the bride’s ransom. Lily, who worked at a salon, had promised to make me look stunning as her wedding gift. My shell-shocked state didn’t faze her—apparently, a bride sitting on a stool with vacant eyes is standard pre-wedding fare.
James returned angry but, as usual, unwilling to discuss his mother’s antics. With no time to spare, he showered, threw on his suit, called the friends driving us to the courthouse, and bolted outside. I felt sorry for him—his mother was, frankly, a nightmare. But I didn’t dare bring it up. I already felt like a thorn in their family’s side.
The ride to the courthouse was silent. This wasn’t the magical day I’d imagined, all pink hues, balloons, and heartfelt cards. There was supposed to be champagne—endless champagne, sipped all day, at the courthouse, on the streets, even in the cars.
Reality was a far cry from my dreams: a dull courthouse ceremony, champagne hastily downed in a hallway under renovation, drowned out by the roar of drills. We hurried outside, piled into cars, and sped to the restaurant. There was just enough time to get there—no city tours or strolls, because Elizabeth despised “pointless wandering with dumb expressions.”
I’m not great at posing for photos either, but I wanted to that day. A wedding dress is a once-in-a-lifetime thing. So, ladies, my advice: plan your wedding yourself, or you’ll end up with the gray misery I experienced on my big day.
Oh, I forgot the best part: imagine my shock when I saw Elizabeth in a dress I’d seen her wear before. James caught my furious glare and quickly explained:
— Can you believe it? We couldn’t find anything! Women, right?
I wanted to tell him his mother wasn’t a woman but a downright sheep, but I kept that to myself. Though, I’m sure my face said it all.
It was bitter to feel so alone at my own wedding. Not only did I have just my cousin Victor and his young fiancée from my side, but Elizabeth ensured my friends were scattered across tables with strangers. My request to seat them together was ignored. She’d effectively neutralized my support system, forcing me to watch my few guests slip away, citing sudden errands or excuses. They never got to give their toasts and guiltily dropped their gift envelopes into the golden box by our table before vanishing from what was supposed to be my wedding.
James’s relatives, meanwhile, acted like they owned the place. After a few too many drinks, they started harassing James’s polite coworkers, who stayed civil out of respect for the groom.
But Elizabeth reigned supreme. I swear her glee came from my miserable expression and the endless praise heaped upon her. Every speech began with tributes to her role in raising “a real man.” I was mentioned only in passing, usually about how grateful I should be to her—for James, for this “splendid” wedding, and for everything she’d done and planned to do. According to the toasts, I should’ve spent my wedding bowing to her.
I was stunned when no one shouted “kiss!” Elizabeth had banned it—she couldn’t bear watching her son kiss. I was simmering, waiting for the moment my anger would erupt. Thank goodness for Lily—she kept things light with her endless jokes. The best man didn’t inspire her, so she focused on me. But even her charm couldn’t fully distract from the banquet hall’s chaos.
During the height of the dancing, the emcee stopped the music and announced:
— And now, the most emotional moment of the evening! It’s time for a dance!
I scrambled to put on my shoes, sore feet be damned, but my haste was for nothing. The floor cleared, and the guests parted as Elizabeth strode to the microphone the emcee offered. Under thunderous applause, she spoke:
— Yes, Grace, — she said to the emcee, — this is indeed the most emotional moment of the evening, and certainly the saddest of my life. I call this the “Blessing Dance”!
She approached James, extended her hand, and soon mother and son were waltzing to hauntingly beautiful but painfully somber music. It matched my expression perfectly.
I nearly fainted, realizing I’d been utterly humiliated at my own wedding. As tipsy guests watched, teary-eyed, the dance that should’ve been our “First Dance” unfolded. I grabbed the emcee’s event plan—unbelievably, no bride-and-groom dance was listed. This woman stole my first marital dance! She’d turned our wedding into her farewell to her son. Now I understood her dress—it looked more funereal than festive.
This was supposed to be my celebration, but Elizabeth ensured no one saw joy on my face. I returned to my seat, trying to gather my thoughts, but they scattered like frightened birds. Lily tried to reach me, but I felt trapped in a glass jar, deaf to the world. The dance dragged on, eternal, as if designed to drain my last reserves of strength, pride, and self-respect—everything that kept Elizabeth from fully controlling me.
The nightmare dance finally ended. Close relatives gathered for a family photo. Only later, recalling that awful day through a fog, did I realize no one pulled me into the shot. They were fine without me. But at the time, I didn’t think—I just shuffled toward the exit, dragging my stupid bouquet, taped to my hand.
Lily, seeing my dazed state, grabbed two bottles of champagne and followed. Soon, we sat on a waterfront bench, watching our pyrotechnic show—the wedding fireworks—begin near the restaurant. Hilariously, they launched the display honoring the newlyweds without checking if we were there. We guzzled champagne straight from the bottles, watching colorful sparks crackle across the sky, punctuated by bursts slicing the night in wild spirals.
I hadn’t eaten all evening, just sipped water, so the champagne hit fast. I’d never drunk like that before, and the feeling was new and frightening. Yet, it gave me courage. I unloaded everything I’d bottled up during the insane wedding prep, venting to Lily with colorful curses about my mother-in-law. She listened, nodding. I wished I could say it all to James.
Then I felt eyes on me. I turned—James stood a few meters away, watching his tipsy bride, barefoot on the cobblestones, passionately trashing his mother.
— James, I want… — I began, but he cut me off:
— No need. I heard everything.
Behind him, Elizabeth had quietly approached. I didn’t know how long she’d been there or what she’d heard, but I didn’t care. I paused, letting her speak, and she did, addressing James:
— Look at her, a drunkard! Are you sure she’s not a tramp?
That was the final straw.
— Choose: her or me! — I nodded toward Elizabeth, facing James.
I was certain of my beloved’s answer, a smile creeping onto my face as he opened his mouth. But I was wrong.
— How low of you! — James said, his face suggesting he’d rather I vanished.
Shame hit me, but I pushed it aside and shouted:
— What are you talking about? This woman humiliates me, and you say nothing! Is that normal? If so, I don’t want to see you!
With trembling hands, I yanked off my wedding ring and threw it at my now-legal husband. It bounced off the shoulder of the man I’d wanted to build a life with, have children with, and give all the love I’d held for years. But those feelings spilled across the waterfront, and I had no desire to gather them. I walked away, barefoot, clutching that stupid bouquet I never got to toss to eager brides-to-be. All I wanted was to go home to my mom and never return to this cruel city that played such a vicious trick on me.
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