The wedding I’ll remember not as happy, but as humiliating
Emma got married for the second time at twenty-eight. Her first marriage ended in divorce—her husband moved to another city, leaving her their two-bedroom flat and their seven-year-old daughter, Lily. Emma hesitated to start a new relationship, but loneliness and the desire to have someone by her side won out in the end. She met James—a charming, cheerful, though unemployed bloke in his early thirties.
At first, he seemed like just a fling, but when Emma saw how easily he bonded with her daughter, she thought, *Why not give it a go?* James moved in almost straight away. He’d had enough of living with his mum, and in Emma’s flat, he acted like he owned the place. A month later, he proposed—no fuss, no ring, just casually dropped it mid-conversation. Emma figured it’d be daft to say no, so she agreed.
They decided not to splurge on the wedding—just a quick registry office signing and a small gathering at the nearest pub. But James’s mum, Margaret, insisted on all the old traditions like the “ransom for the bride” and other theatrics. Emma reluctantly went along with it.
On the wedding day, when Emma came out to greet her mother-in-law in a simple but elegant dress, Margaret looked her up and down with a smirk and said, *”Excuse me, where’s the bride? All I see is a woman without a veil. Must’ve got the wrong address.”*
Emma swallowed the sting and just muttered, *”Let’s get this over with. We’ve got to be at the registry.”*
But that was just the start. At the ceremony, Emma’s mum got teary-eyed—only for Margaret to snap, *”Don’t make a scene. If anyone should cry, it’s me—they’re taking my son away today!”*
Later at the pub, when the host announced the newlyweds’ first dance, James went to take Emma’s hand—but Margaret cut in, grabbing his arm. *”The first dance is with his mother!”* she declared, as if it were some sacred rule.
Emma didn’t even get mad—it was too ridiculous. She laughed along with the guests, but something inside her shifted.
Toward the end of the night, when it was time for “family photos,” Emma stepped in to join James and Margaret—but her mother-in-law stiff-armed her away. *”What are you doing? This is for *family*. Don’t ruin the shot.”*
James said nothing. Just looked the other way.
The next day, Emma rang the photographer and asked him to scrap every photo with Margaret in it. A petty revenge, but it was something.
A week later, her mother-in-law turned up unannounced. James was at work, and the conversation turned to future children.
*”At least you’ve got Lily,”* Margaret said. *”She can look after the baby. Handy, isn’t it? You go back to work, and the girl pushes the pram.”*
*”Lily’s eight,”* Emma replied coldly. *”She’s a child.”*
*”Well, in a year she’ll be nine. Perfect age! And as soon as you’ve had the baby, straight back to work. Maternity leave is a luxury. My James shouldn’t have to carry everyone.”*
Emma snapped. *”After that, I’m grateful I’m not pregnant. You’ve killed any desire I had to have kids.”*
Margaret went red with rage. From that day on, she started poisoning James against her. Slowly, he grew distant, looking for “something better.” In the end, he left.
But that wasn’t the end of it.
A month later, Margaret called. *”We’ve decided the flat should be split. I’ll drop by tomorrow with the paperwork.”*
*”Are you mad? This flat is mine. I don’t owe you a thing.”*
*”You wore him out—he deserves compensation! We’ll get it through court if we have to.”*
Emma hung up and blocked the number.
She never saw either of them again.