“You’re not really family,” said the daughter-in-law when I brought flowers on the day they submitted their notice.
“Margaret Whitaker, you left work early today,” remarked Mrs. Thompson from across the hall as she spotted Margaret by the front steps. “Feeling poorly?”
“No, Mrs. Thompson, Im quite all right. Just had some urgent matters to attend to,” Margaret replied, adjusting her handbag on her shoulder.
“Good to hear. At our age, you never know. My blood pressure spiked yesterdaythought Id have to ring for an ambulance.”
Margaret nodded absently, barely registering the womans complaints. One thought looped in her mindshe had to reach the registry office in time. Her son, Oliver, hadnt given her an exact hour, but she knew young couples usually did these things first thing in the morning.
The bus crawled through traffic, inching forward at a glacial pace. Margaret checked her watch repeatedly, fingers fidgeting through her bagpassport, payslips, council tax statementeverything they might need if the young ones decided to sort out the new living arrangements straight away.
She pictured Olivers face lighting up when he saw her. How Emily would blush and thank her for her thoughtfulness. After all, wasnt this one of the most important days of their lives? How could they do it without family?
The registry office sat in an old stone building at the heart of the city. Margaret climbed the steps, her heart fluttering just as it had forty years ago when shed married her late husband. Back then, her parents had been by her side.
The lobby bustled with couples clutching documents, parents registering newborns, clerks shuffling papers. Margaret scanned the room but saw no sign of Oliver.
“Excuse me,” she asked a woman at the information desk, “where do we file the marriage notices?”
“Second floor, office two-oh-seven,” the clerk replied without looking up.
Margaret ascended the stairs. The corridor yawned long and dim, polished floorboards creaking underfoot. She found the door ajar and peeked inside.
“Mum, what are you doing here?” Oliver asked, startled.
He sat across from a stern-faced registrar, Emily beside him in a smart blue dress. Their passports and forms lay spread on the table.
“Ollie, darling!” Margaret stepped in, beaming. “How could I miss such an important day? I wanted to support you.”
Emily shot Oliver a glance before turning a cool stare on Margaret.
“Hello, Mrs. Whitaker,” she said evenly.
“Emily, love, congratulations!” Margaret moved to embrace her, but the younger woman stiffened.
“Im sorry,” the registrar cut in, “but were in the middle of processing. If youd like to observe, please take a seat by the wall.”
Margaret sat, pulling a small bouquet from her bag. “Emily, these are for you. I know you like chrysanthemums.”
The girl took them without warmth. “Thanks.”
“Right, lets proceed,” said the registrar. “Preferred ceremony date?”
“The fifteenth of October,” Oliver answered.
“Eleven a.m. is available. Suitable?”
They nodded.
“Ollie, what about a Saturday?” Margaret interjected. “Weekdays are tricky for relatives.”
“Mum, weve already decided,” Oliver said flatly.
“Of course, of course. Youre adultsyou know best.”
Emilys irritation flashed again. Margaret pretended not to notice. Nerves, surely.
“Will you have witnesses?” asked the registrar.
“Yes, my brother and her best friend,” Emily said.
“Perhaps the parents could sign too?” Margaret suggested. “For tradition.”
“Mum, its only two witnesses by law,” Oliver explained patiently.
“Of course, silly me. Im just so happy for you.”
The paperwork dragged on. Margaret watched them, charmed by their solemn expressions. When it was done, she stood first.
“Shall we celebrate? Ive booked a table at that lovely café on Victoria Streettheir cakes are divine.”
Oliver and Emily exchanged a look.
“Mum, we werent planning on guests today,” he said carefully.
“What do you mean? This calls for a proper toast!”
“Mrs. Whitaker,” Emily cut in, her voice icy, “wed rather spend the day alone.”
“Fine, fine. What about this evening? Ive got ingredients for your favorite shepherds pie, Ollie.”
“Mum, weve made other plans,” Oliver said firmly.
Something clenched in Margarets chest. Shed prepared so carefully, dreamed of sharing their joy.
“But Im your mother,” she said faintly. “How can you do this without me?”
“Were grown, Mum. Well manage.”
They stepped outside into golden sunlight. Couples strolled the square, posing by the fountain. Margaret walked beside them, suddenly superfluous.
“Ollie, could we take a photo? Just one?”
“Well take plenty later.”
“Just one for the album?”
He relented. Margaret fumbled with her phone.
“Stand closer. Emily, sweetheart, smile!”
The girls smile was brittle. Margaret snapped a few shots.
“Lovely! Ill frame these straightaway.”
“Mum, we should go,” Oliver said, checking his watch.
“Where to? I could walk with you”
“Wed like some privacy,” Emily said sharply.
Margaret bit back a retort. She hugged Oliver, then reached for Emily, who stepped away.
“Goodbye,” the girl said stiffly.
“Ill ring tomorrow,” Oliver promised.
Margaret watched them go, then trudged to the bus stop. Her mood had soured completely. Shed imagined them laughing over tea, planning the wedding. Instead, shed been tolerated like an obligation.
On the bus, she scrolled through the photos. Oliver looked radiant. Emily, even in pictures, seemed tense.
At home, Margaret cooked the shepherds pie anyway, knowing shed eat alone. Her hands moved automaticallydicing onions, browning mince, layering potatoes. Her mind replayed the registry office.
Why had Emily been so cold? Theyd known each other six monthsshed always been pleasant before. Never visited, true, but Margaret had chalked that up to shyness.
The phone rang as she dished up.
“Margaret, hello!” chirped Mrs. Thompson. “How did it go? All settled?”
“Its done. Theyve submitted the notice.”
“How splendid! And did they invite you to celebrate?”
“No. They wanted time alone.”
“How odd. In my day, parents always joined for such things.”
“They say theyre adults now.”
“Adults or not, a mothers a mother. You raised that boy alone after your husband passed. And this is the thanks you get?”
Margaret sighed. The woman wasnt wrong.
“Talk later, Mrs. Thompson. My dinners getting cold.”
She hung up and sat at the table. The pie was perfect, but her appetite had vanished. The flat felt cavernous. She turned on the telly, but the noise only emphasized the silence.
Her friend Patricia called that evening.
“Well? Did they file the paperwork?”
“They did.”
“Why so glum? You should be over the moon!”
“I am. Just tired.”
“Out with it, then.”
Margaret recounted the day, her disappointment leaking through.
“The nerve of that girl!” Patricia huffed. “Who does she think she is? A grooms mother is sacred!”
“Pat, dont be harsh. Maybe shes just nervous.”
“Nervous? Hardly! Shes marking her territory. Showing wholl wear the trousers.”
“Dont say such things”
“Why not? Olivers always been soft. Now shes got him wrapped around her finger. Probably planning to cut you out altogether.”
Margaret went quiet. The thought had crossed her mind.
“Listen,” Patricia said, “dont fret. Let them play house. First real row they have, theyll come running back.”
“And if they dont?”
“They will. These independent types crumble fast without mummys help.”
Patricias pep talk lifted Margarets spirits slightly. Maybe waiting was the answer.
Next morning, Oliver called.
“Hi, Mum. How are you?”
“Alright, love. And you?”
“Good. Listen, I wanted to talk.”
His tone put her on edge.
“Go on.”
“Emily was upset yesterday. Said you werent very welcoming.”
“Not welcoming? I brought flowers, tried to arrange a celebration!”
“Yeah, but… She felt you were judging her.”
Margaret was stunned.
“Oliver, am I not allowed to care about my son?”
“Of course you are. But Emily thinks youre overbearing.”
“Overbearing?” Her voice cracked. “I just wanted to share your happiness!”
“Mum, were grown. We dont need chaperones.”
“So Im excess baggage now? After everything Ive done?”
“Dont be daft. But Emilys my
