**Diary Entry The Mother-in-Laws Dress**
The moment I stepped into the restaurant, I knew something was off. It was too quiet for a Friday night, the lighting oddly dim, the maître d grinning far too eagerly. But James? He seemed perfectly normalexcept for the faint tremor in his fingers as they laced through mine.
“Your table,” the maître d announced, pulling out a chair, and I paused at the entrance to a private dining room. Hundreds of candles flickered in the dark, casting shadows across the crisp white tablecloth. At the centre stood a vase of deep red rosesmy favourites. Soft music played in the background.
“James,” I whispered, “whats going on?” Instead of answering, he dropped to one knee. A ring glimmered in his trembling hand. “Emily Whitaker,” he said solemnly, “I thought long and hard about how to make this moment special. But then I realisedit doesnt matter where or how. Only one thing does. Will you marry me?”
I looked at his facethe stubborn curl falling over his forehead, the shy smileand felt my heart swell with tenderness. “Yes,” I breathed. “Of course, yes!”
The ring slid onto my finger. I hugged him, breathing in the familiar scent of his aftershave, and thought*this is happiness*. Simple and bright as a summers day. But just a week later, our peace shattered.
“How do you mean*organise it yourselves*?” Mrs. Hamilton snapped, fussing with her immaculate updo. “Absolutely not! A wedding needs experience, a womans touch. Ive already picked out a lovely venue”
“Mum,” James cut in gently, “we appreciate the help, but we want to do this our way.”
“*Your way*?” She threw up her hands. “You havent the faintest idea! Take my niece, Charlotte”
I stayed silent as my future mother-in-law paced our flats living room, rattling off traditions, customs, the importance of “not making a spectacle.” Between sentences, her sharp eyes darted around, scrutinising the décoras if deciding what needed changing.
“Mum,” James tried again, “weve chosen a venue. The White Willow, know it?” Mrs. Hamilton winced as if struck by a sudden toothache. “*The White Willow*? That new place? No, noonly The Imperial! The chandeliers, the service! And the managers an old friend”
“Mum,” Jamess voice hardened, “*were* paying for this. Well celebrate where we like.” She pressed her lips into a thin line, chin lifted. “Fine. Have it your way. Dont say I didnt warn you.”
She left in a cloud of expensive perfume and the promise of a storm. “Sorry,” James sighed, pulling me close. “Shes just passionate.” I stayed quiet. A small voice whispered*this is only the beginning*.
And it was. Over the next weeks came endless debates, veiled complaints, and pointed critiques. Mrs. Hamilton hated everythingthe flowers, the table arrangements. “Peonies? In September?” She shook her head. “No, only white lilies! And the arch must be grander. The musiciansgoodness, youre seriously considering *them*? I know a brilliant quartet from the Royal Academy”
I bit my tongue, leaning on my mothercalm, steady Mrs. Thompsonfor support. “Dont take it to heart,” shed say whenever I slumped onto her sofa, exhausted from another “wedding battle.” “Youre the bride. Its your choice. She just cant accept her sons grown up.”
But the real storm brewed over the cake. “*Three tiers?*” Mrs. Hamilton brandished the bakery catalogue. “Where are the sugar flowers? The figurines?”
“Mum,” James sighed, “we want something simple. Elegant.”
“*Simple?*” Her voice cracked. “Youll humiliate me! The son of a renowned architect, serving what looks like a school-hall cake!”
I snapped. “Mrs. Hamilton, lets be clear. This is *our* wedding. Not yours.” The room went silent. She paled, then flushed, and stood abruptly. “Fine. I see Im *unwanted* here.”
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows. “Well,” James muttered, “shes upset.” I said nothing. Unease coiled in my chest. Two days later, the storm broke.
At the bridal boutique, I overheard the managers phone call: “Yes, Mrs. Hamilton, your dress will be ready. A gorgeous shadenearly identical to the brides”
My vision blurred. I fled, forgetting my fitting, and rang my mother with shaking hands. “Mum,” I choked out, “shes trying to ruin it She bought the same dress”
“Calm down,” Mums voice was steel. “Trust me. Ill handle it.”
“*How?*”
“Just wait.”
The morning of the wedding dawned rainy. I stared through the window, legs trembling, as the hairdresser pinned a stubborn curl. All I could think*what will she wear today? Would she really dare?*
“Darling!” Mum swept in. “Let me see you.” She gasped. “Oh, youre breathtaking!”
“Mum,” I searched her face, “did you do something?” She only smiled enigmatically. “Its your day. No one will spoil it.”
At the registry office, nerves blurred everythingsolemn vows, Jamess radiant smile, the fumbled ring. But among the guests, no cream-coloured dress.
“Shes going straight to the venue,” James whispered. “Said her hair went wrong”
At The White Willow, applause greeted us. Crystal chandeliers, white linens, a sea of bloomsit was perfect. Until a black Mercedes pulled up.
Mrs. Hamilton stepped out, resplendent in a cream gown, beaded and nearly identical to mine.
But before she reached the door, a waiter “accidentally” collided with her, tipping dark red cranberry sauce down the pristine fabric.
“Oh, *dreadfully* sorry!” He dabbed uselessly at the stain. Mrs. Hamilton froze, face cycling through shock, fury, and humiliation.
“IllIll be back,” she hissed, retreating to the car.
I glanced at Mum, who was calmly adjusting a centrepiece, a faint smirk on her lips.
“You know,” James murmured, “Im glad that happened.”
I stared.
He sighed. “Im tired of her controlling everything. Even today, she had to outshine you.”
I leaned into him. Outside, rain fell softly, but inside, I felt strangely at peace.
Mrs. Hamilton never returned. We danced, laughed, andfor oncewere blissfully, entirely happy.
As for her dress? Well sometimes fate puts things right. Even if it takes cranberry sauce, a clumsy waiter, and the brides mother.
