Some weddings are remembered for flowers, vows, or first dances. Ours will always be remembered for who wasn’t there and how her absence crystallized truth. I’m 28, an only child, and like most brides, I wanted a joyful, loving, and tearful wedding day.
For years, my 29-year-old fiancé and I built a home and saved every dime to celebrate together.
But nothing prepared me for how far his mother would go to interfere with our intentions.
Marlon and I have lived together for three years, and since we’re paying for the wedding, every penny counts.
That makes what I’m about to say even more upsetting. Diane, his mother, was impossible from the start.
Controlling is more accurate than narcissistic.
Since Marlon and I talked marriage, she’d been pushing herself into the process to control everything. She and I have fought over everything.
She demanded to know why her yoga instructor wasn’t invited to the guest list, as if it were impossible.
The color scheme followed.
She thought beige was “boring,” and only red could energize a wedding. The setting was another conflict.
Without a cathedral, it “wouldn’t feel real.” When we chose a cake, she wrinkled her nose and declared chocolate filling “tacky,” insisting on pistachio mousse. She attacked the reception meal, saying “people will talk” without lobster.
The band was also under her control.
She demanded that they play her favorite Broadway songs, as if the night were for her alone.
The worst was when she used the bridal shower as a stage. She suddenly requested a “second entrance” so everyone would applause for her.
I stared at her, thinking she was joking.
“You mean, like… after the bride?”
“Yes,” she said seriously. Yes, you’ll have your entry, but I should too.
I should be recognized.
This day is for me and you.”
Marlon intervened before I could react.
This doesn’t work, Mom.
No second entrance.”
Arms folded. “Well, if you’re taking that away from me, then I’ll at least need my own entrance song at the reception.”
I hesitated. “What song are you thinking?”
She stared me down and said, “All Hail the Queen.”
I giggled, anticipating the punchline that never arrived.
Red-faced Marlon.
“No way, Mom.
You’re entering with other parents, not royalty.”
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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