A few days after my wedding, my cousin called and asked if I knew what my husband’s mother had been saying during the reception.
I didn’t.
My mom, Elena, had worn a beautiful embroidered dress from our family’s heritage. She had spent months having it altered and had been nervous about wearing something so traditional at a modern hotel wedding.
I thought she looked incredible.
So did most of our guests.
But apparently, my mother-in-law, Diane, had made several remarks about how my mom “didn’t dress for the occasion” and looked like she had shown up to the wrong event.
What hurt most was learning my mother had overheard one of them.
She never told me.
When I called her, she brushed it off.
“Honey, it was your day. I wasn’t going to let something silly ruin it.”
That somehow made me even angrier.
I opened my laptop and emailed our photographer.
I didn’t ask her to delete Diane from the pictures or edit anything petty.
Instead, I asked for extra photographs of my mother.
Her getting ready.
Her adjusting my veil.
Her dancing with my father.
Her laughing with my aunts.
I also chose a full-page portrait of Mom in her traditional dress for the opening section of our wedding album.
When Diane saw the finished book weeks later, she paused on that page.
“That’s a very prominent photo,” she said.
I smiled.
“It should be. My mom looked beautiful.”
She didn’t say another word.
And my mother still keeps a framed copy of that photograph beside her bed.
