The mother-in-law sent her daughter-in-law to pick mushrooms in a deserted fir forest, but she did not return alone.
“You do understand this isnt even up for discussion, dont you?” The woman in a fluffy bathrobe, her hair wrapped haphazardly in a towel, breezed past her husband as if she were mentioning what takeaway to fetch for dinner.
The man, absorbed in his laptop, barely glanced up. To a stranger, he mightve seemed engrossed, but anyone who knew him wouldve recognised the tacticdelaying the inevitable.
“What exactly is *not* up for discussion?” Edward removed his glasses and levelled a steady gaze at his wife. Without them, his face looked sharper, as though he were deciphering a riddle in her careless phrasing.
“Youre paying for Emilys wedding,” Charlotte declared, her voice bright as if shed just announced theyd won a holiday.
“Sorry, what?” Edward chuckled and leaned back in his chair.
“Yes, the whole thing. Every last penny.” She unwound the towel, ruffling her damp hair absently.
“Hold onwhen was it decided that *Im* personally funding this celebration? Did I miss a memo?”
The living room, painted in muted sage, seemed to hold its breath. It was the sort of tidy, uncluttered space described in home magazines as “minimalist yet lived-in.” On the shelf stood framed photosholidays, their wedding. Edward always thought of that day like breaking ground on a house: the foundation laid, but no telling how much labour still lay ahead.
“Its tradition,” Charlotte said airily, as if invoking centuries of custom.
“*Whose* tradition? Ours?” He peered at her over his glasses. “We live in London, in this flat, under this roof, and Ive never heard of this *family regulation* before.”
His wife radiated certainty, every gesture precise, her voice smooth as though shed rehearsed every reply.
“Youre the man, youre the head of the household. That means you help. Its that simple.”
“Right. Fine. Ill contribute. A thousand quidmore than reasonable for a wedding gift.”
Charlottes eyebrows shot up as if hed suggested serving crisps at a banquet.
“Edward, are you *listening* to yourself? A *thousand*? You might as well post a congratulatory tweet!”
“Charlotte, lets be clear. Is this about budget, fairness, or some fantasy? Five grand already felt generous, and youre talking *forty*. Forty *thousand*? Seriously?”
His voice rose, then he caught himself. Despite his easy charm, frustration sometimes slipped the leash. *Steady*, he thought.
“In *our* family,” Charlotte continued, sweetly reasonable, as if explaining to a toddler, “we help each other. Mum helped Aunt Sophie, Dad pitched in when Uncle Jack needed a car Its normal.”
“Ive heard the stories, yes. But where does *affordability* factor in? Budgets arent whimstheyre maths. Were not on rations, but forty grand just so someone can have a party? Honestly?”
Charlotte sank onto the sofa, hands smoothing her robe, her stare unblinking.
“This is about principle, isnt it?” Her eyes narrowed. “You just dont care about my family.”
“No, its *not* that!” He exhaled sharply. “Im thrilled for Emily. Let her marry, Ill even give a speech. Rhyming couplets, if she likes. But dont turn me into a walking ATM!”
Silence. Thick and taut. Edward stood, pacing like a zoo animal.
“Fine. A thousand. Thats my final offer. Understand?”
“Darling,” Charlotte said coldly, “Emily wont forget this. And neither will I.”
—
Days later.
Margaret settled into her armchair by the bay window, basking in the late sun. Her home had always been Edwards sanctuarywarm with the scent of shortbread and lavender, a place where troubles stayed at the door. After the row with Charlotte, hed needed it more than ever.
“Mum, you wont believe it,” he began, feigning lightness. “She expects me to fund her sisters *entire* wedding. As if Ive just landed a seven-figure bonus.”
His mother stirred her tea lazily before answering.
“Really? Surely she meant a gift, some token? Its only natural to want the best for the young ones.”
Margaret had mellowed with age, her once-sharp indignation softened into quiet scepticism.
“No, Mum, not a gift,” he said. “*Pay for the wedding.* As if thats my lifes purpose.”
From the kitchen came the clatter of cupshis sister, Grace, assembling biscuits on a tray.
“Ed, stop winding yourself up,” she called. “Maybe she was joking? You know how women exaggerate sometimes.”
“A *joke*?” He turned. “Charlottes tone didnt leave room for doubt.”
But then he paused. Hed replayed the argument endlessly, and it had all seemed logical. Yet now, hearing Grace, another possibility flickered.
“Wait,” he murmured. “What if it *was* a joke?”
Grace grinned at his expression.
“See? Forty grand for someone elses wedding? Please. Yours at least involved youthis is her sister. Classic wind-up. You know how Charlotte loves a performance.”
Edward bit his lip, picturing it: Charlotte in her robe, deadpanning the demand while stifling laughter. Himpragmatic to a faulttaking it at face value.
“Christ,” he admitted, exhaling. “If youre right, Grace, Ive made a proper tit of myself.”
“Dont fret,” she said, nudging the biscuits toward him. “When you find out, youll laugh about it. Just dont stew.”
Margaret smiled into her tea, as if marvelling at how her serious son had married such a playful woman.
“Right,” Edward muttered, slumping into the armchair. “Ill revisit this at home. If it *was* a joke, Ill apologise. Just need to stop taking everything so literally.”
For the first time in days, he laughed. The weight lifted. If hed misread her, at least itd make a good story.
—
Days later.
Edward had just kicked off his shoes, settling onto the sofa, when the doorbell rang. His plans for a quiet evening evaporatedthere stood Beatrice, his mother-in-law. Impeccable as ever, her presence carried the quiet authority of a headmistress. Her unannounced visits always put him on edge, though he masked it well.
“Edward, dear,” she began, smooth as poured honey, “you know Emilys wedding is soon?”
“I do,” he said, bracing.
“Good. In *our* family, we face important events together. Now youre part of that, Edward. Emilys wedding is a milestone, and youll contribute. Its your duty.”
Her tone brooked no argument, as if the matter were already settled.
“Of course Ill help,” he said evenly. “Charlotte mentioned it. Ill give a thousandgenerous, Id say.”
Beatrices lips pursed.
“Edward, *a thousand*? Youll cover the *entire* cost. A wedding is significant. Emilys young, they cant afford it. You can.”
His smile faded.
“Waitpay for the *whole* thing? Seriously? Why *me*? Whats my obligation to her fiancés family?”
“Because youre family now,” she said, as if explaining to a slow child. “If you want respect, you must support us.”
“Right,” he said, studying her. “And the grooms family? Whats *their* contribution? Whys the burden entirely on me?”
A flicker of hesitation, then:
“The grooms finding his feet. His jobs unsteady. His parents arent in a position to help. So we rely on you.”
Edward exhaled, irritation simmering.
“So *I* paid for my wedding, and now Im paying for Emilys? Thats rich. Lets split it. If were helping, everyone pitches in. But Im *not* bankrolling it all. A thousandfinal offer.”
Charlotte, hovering in the doorway, chimed in:
“Edward, this is *family*. Cant you just *help*?”
“I *am* helping,” he said, turning. “Your mothers asking me to fund a strangers wedding. A thousands my limit. Want more? Find other donors.”
Beatrice stood abruptly, face tight with disapproval.
“Very well. Remember this, Edward: family doesnt treat each other so coldly. I thought better of you.”
She swept out, pausing to whisper to Charlotte before slamming the door. Charlotte huffed and stalk
