The wedding will happen, but Im not needed there, she snapped, never looking up from her phone.
Are you kidding me?! Have you forgotten to pay the council tax again? Grace Thompson hurled the bills onto the kitchen table, scattering them across the room.
Grace, I told you Im held up at work, her husband Tom muttered, his eyes downcast. I promise itll be paid tomorrow.
Tomorrow! Always tomorrow! The moneys due today!
Dont shout, love. Ethels asleep!
Shes not asleep, shes glued to that phone, as usual!
Grace drifted into Ethels bedroom. The twentyfouryearold lay on her bed, face lit by the glow of her smartphone, a faint, detached smile frozen on her lips.
Ethel, are you coming down for dinner?
Silence.
Ethel!
Mmhm, the girl replied without moving her head.
What did you say, mmhm? Are you eating or not?
I dont know.
Grace sighed and returned to the kitchen. When Ethel was a little girl, they had been inseparable. Grace could still picture her daughter running home from the nursery, flinging herself into Graces arms, spilling every secret of the day. Then came school, university, and now a stranger shared the spare bedroom, barely speaking a word.
Half an hour later Ethel shuffled into the kitchen, sat at the table and kept typing on her phone.
Ethel, could you put the phone down for a moment and talk properly? Grace asked. Just a bit.
Whats there to talk about?
Hows work? Anything new?
Everythings fine.
And that boy, whats his name James? Are you still seeing him?
Ethel lifted her eyes from the screen, a flash of irritation flickering.
Mother, Im twentyfour. I dont have to report my love life to you.
Im not demanding a report, just curious.
Yes, were still together. Thats it.
Grace poured herself a cup of tea, wanting to ask more but fearing another sharp retort.
By the way, Ethel suddenly set the phone aside, the wedding is on. In May.
Grace froze, the tea halfraised to her lips.
A wedding? Youre getting married?
Yes. James proposed, I said yes.
Ethel! Grace sprang up, trying to hug her daughter. My dear, this is such news! Why didnt you tell me sooner?
When? He only proposed yesterday.
But still! You could have mentioned it this morning! Or at least hinted!
I forgot.
Grace sank back into her chair. She had forgotten.
Alright, she managed a smile. The important thing is youre happy. Whens the wedding? Where? How can we help?
In May. We havent set the exact date yet. Itll be at a restaurant.
And the dress? We could go pick it out together! Remember how you used to stare at my wedding photos as a child, saying you wanted a dress just like that?
Mother, Ive already chosen it. Jamess mother and I went together.
His mother?
Yes. She paid for it, so we went together.
Grace felt a sting in her chest. A bridal gown, chosen with a mother, is a rite of passage for every girl. Yet Ethel had gone with her future motherinlaw.
I could have gone too, she whispered. We could have done it together
What for? Youd still clash over the design. Youd want something simple, and Mrs. Whitaker would demand something extravagant.
I dont want something simple! I want you to have a wonderful day!
Ethel rolled her eyes.
Enough, Mother. The dress is bought. Thats that.
What about the guests? How many should we invite? I need to make a list on our side
We dont need to. The list is already done. Mrs. Whitaker has organised everything.
But Im your mother! I should be part of the preparations!
Why? Mrs. Whitaker has the best venue, a topnotch DJ, a photographer. Shes got the contacts, the experience. What can you do? Call the village hall and ask for a fiddler?
Graces throat tightened.
How can you say that?
Just the truth, Mother. You have no money, no connections, no taste. Mrs. Whitaker has all of that. So why bother us?
Graces face went pale.
Ethel, how can you speak to me like that?
Its the truth. Im being honest. Youre not needed in the planning. Jamess parents are footing half the bill. What are we paying? Nothing.
Well take a loan!
No need for loans! Mrs. Whitaker has already paid everything!
Grace rose, her chair scraping the floor. So were poor, and theres no place for us at our own daughters wedding?
No, were just less able.
Because Mrs. Whitaker can afford it, shes now the one in charge?
Yes! Ethel shouted. Shes the one who can give what you cant money, contacts, status! And you? Youd organise a crèche wedding with cheap champagne!
I can give love, support, be there for you!
I dont need that! I need a beautiful wedding, like normal people have!
Are we not normal?
No! Youre poor! Youve been poor all your life! Im tired of that!
Grace stood, stunned, as Ethel glared at her, breath heaving.
Leave, Ethel whispered. I have to work.
Grace slipped out of the room and ran into Tom in the hallway, having heard everything.
Ill kill that girl, Tom muttered, his voice low. How dare she speak to you like that!
Dont touch her. Shes just ashamed of us.
Shamed? We raised her for twentyfour years, gave up everything for her, and shes ashamed?
Please, be quiet. My head hurts.
Grace collapsed onto the sofa, wrapping a blanket around herself. Tom sat beside her.
Grace, maybe we shouldnt go to the wedding at all?
Dont be foolish.
Why be foolish? If were not wanted, why should we be there?
Shes my only child. I cant miss her wedding.
Even if she insults you?
Even then.
Tom stroked her hair, his silence heavy.
A week passed. Grace drafted a guest list, squeezing twenty names into a cramped notebook, crossing out distant cousins and old friends. She handed the list to Ethel.
Its fine, Ethel said without looking up. Send it to Mrs. Whitaker; shell add it to the master list.
Should I call her myself? Get to know her?
Why bother?
Were practically family now!
Not yet. And dont. Mrs. Whitaker is busy.
Am I not busy then?
Ethel rolled her eyes and retreated to her room. Grace sent the list via text. An hour later a reply arrived: List received. Invitations will follow later. Whitaker.
Cold and formal. Grace tried to write something friendly, but held back, fearing it would be seen as meddling.
Another month slipped by. No invitations arrived. Grace asked Ethel.
Forgot to mention, there wont be any invitations. Everyone will just be told the time and place.
What? Invitations are a tradition!
An old tradition. Nobody does that now.
Mother, can you at least show me the wedding dress?
Why?
I want to see it!
Youll see it at the wedding.
Enough, please! Ethel snapped, storming out.
Each conversation with her daughter felt like a knot being pulled tighter. One night Grace could bear no more and dialled Mrs. Whitakers number, which she had found in Ethels messages.
Hello? a polished female voice answered.
This is Grace Thompson, Ethels mother.
Yes, Mrs. Thompson.
I was hoping we could meet, perhaps share a coffee?
A pause.
Mrs. Thompson, Im terribly busy with the wedding preparations. Thank you, but I dont need help.
I can help!
No, thank you. Everything is under control.
Im the brides mother! I must be involved!
My dear, lets be clear. Ethel asked me to handle the arrangements. If you wish to speak with her, do so directly.
Graces fists clenched under the table.
Listen, I understand you have more resources. But I want a role, even a small one.
Mother, its not about resources. Its about what Ethel wants.
Grace felt a cold wind of rejection.
That evening she gathered the courage for a serious talk.
Ethel, sit down, please.
Im in a rush, I have a meeting with James.
Just five minutes.
Ethel slumped into the chair opposite Grace.
I know you want a perfect wedding. I know Mrs. Whitaker can do more than I can. But you said, the wedding will happen, but Im not needed. Is that true?
Ethels brow furrowed.
I never said that.
You did, in spirit at least.
Enough, Mother! Ill have you at the wedding, whether you like it or not!
Just as a guest?
Yes.
Not as the mother of the bride?
Whats the difference?
Graces throat constricted.
The mother of the bride stands beside the couple, blesses them, gives a toast, embraces the bride before the ceremony. A guest merely sips champagne in a corner.
Mother, those are oldfashioned ideas!
How now?
Today its all about style, Instagram likes, perfect photos. Your sentimental speeches are a thing of the past.
So Im a relic?
Ethel rose abruptly.
Im tired of this! Come to the wedding or dont. I dont care!
Graces voice trembled. Do you really dont care if Im there?
Yes! Because youll just stand there whining, complaining that youre ignored!
Im not whining!
Youre always the victim! Everyone else is at fault!
Grace stepped back, as if struck.
Ethel
Enough! Im leaving!
Ethel snatched her bag and slammed the door.
Grace sank onto a chair, tears streaming. Tom entered, wrapping his arms around her.
I wont go to that wedding, Grace whispered through sobs.
Good. You dont have to suffer.
Let her celebrate with Mrs. Whitaker! Tom murmured, patting her head.
That night Ethel did not return home. Grace lay awake, listening for any sound. In the morning a text arrived: Spent the night at Jamess flat. Ill be back later for my things.
Grace replied simply, Okay.
The day dragged on in a fog. Tom went to work; Grace wandered the empty house, replaying every exchange, wondering where she had gone wrong. She thought of school fees she could not afford, of the cheap meals shed served, of the long hours shed worked as a nurse before retirement. They had lived modestly, yet she had tried to give Ethel everything she could. It seemed never enough.
A week later, a knock sounded at the door. Grace opened it to find Ethel, eyes red, hair dishevelled.
Mother, she whispered.
Ethel? What happened?
Ethel collapsed onto the sofa, sobbing.
James cheated on me with my friend. I found out today.
Grace held her, rubbing her back.
Itll be alright, she whispered. Well get through this.
The wedding is ten days away! Everythings paid, guests invited!
The wedding can be called off.
But Mrs. Whitaker has poured so much money into it!
Mrs. Whitaker will manage. Youre what matters.
Ethel looked up, tears still streaming.
Mother, Im sorry. I was awful. I was ashamed of you, thought you werent good enough. I wanted to be like Jamess mother, successful, polished.
What now?
Now I see I was wrong. Mrs. Whitaker says the wedding will go on, that James is still the right man. But you you just held me.
Grace pressed Ethel tighter.
Because Im your mother. I love you, no matter what.
Even after everything I said?
Especially after that.
Ethel wept harder. Grace stroked her hair, murmuring comforting words.
Tom entered, saw them, and smiled faintly before stepping back out.
They stayed like that through the night, talking of childhood, of school, of the moment Ethel first felt embarrassed by her parents.
I thought if I were like the rich, Id be loved, Ethel confessed.
Youre already loved, dear. By me.
Now I know.
The next morning Ethel called James and told him the wedding was cancelled. She then phoned Mrs. Whitaker, thanked her for everything, but explained she would not go through with the marriage. Mrs. Whitaker tried to persuade her with money and reputation, but Ethel was firm.
Im done living someone elses life, she said. Its time to live my own.
When the calls ended, Ethel turned to her mother.
Mother, may I stay here for a while until I find a flat?
This is your home, Ethel. Stay as long as you like.
Thank you. And forgive me for everything.
Grace embraced her.
I forgave you ages ago.
They sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea and finally speaking, really speaking, for the first time in many years. In that moment Grace realised her daughter had not been lost; she merely needed to walk through pain to understand what truly mattered.
Love, not money or status, was the true wealth. The old wounds began to knit, and hope returned to the quiet house on the outskirts of York.
