Page 9 of The Mother-in-Law

I munch on a couple of fries and hope they’ll argue it out amongst themselves. The bottom line is, it always takes a little adjustment when a new person joins the family. They have different values, different histories, different opinions. It might all work out wonderfully, but, of course, it might not. Patrick has been around a few years now and while I’d been less than thrilled about him, we’ve adjusted. I don’t doubt it will be the same for Lucy if she sticks around. Still, it’s natural to brace a little. A change is coming—of course we’re going to be on our toes for a while.

‘Do you think she’s a gold-digger?’ Jan lays a hand on my forearm, making the comment a little more sinister and exciting.

‘No.’

The girls can’t hide their disappointment. ‘Not another Patrick then?’

I don’t respond. I have my own feelings on Patrick’s little bookkeeping business, which he runs with the enthusiasm of someone who is expecting a sizable inheritance to rescue him from his problems, but that’s none of my business, and it’s certainly none of Jan’s. Besides, no matter his work ethic, Patrick is family and Nettie loves him. As such I owe him a little loyalty.

‘Well, the only thing that matters is that she makes Ollie happy,’ Kathy says after a long pause, and everyone hums in agreement. Everyone except me.

If you ask me, everyone is a little too interested in their children’s happiness. Ask anyone what they wish for their kids and they’ll all say they want them to be happy. Happy! Not empathetic, contributing members of society. Not humble, wise and tolerant. Not strong in the face of adversity or grateful in the face of misfortune. I, on the other hand, have always wanted hardship for my kids. Real, honest hardship. Challenges big enough to make them empathetic and wise. Take the pregnant refugee girls I deal with every day. They’ve been through unimaginable hardships, and here they are working hard, contributing and grateful.

What more could you want for your kids?

The engagement came faster than I expected—within the year. Ollie announced it at dinner one night, wearing the same proud smile he’d worn at two years old when he’d carried in a dead bird from the garden. Tom, of course, just about combusted at the news, at one point bursting into actual, flowing tears. For heaven’s sake! That was five months ago. Before the real work of the wedding planning began.

‘Ready, Mum and Dad?’

I’m sitting beside Lucy’s father, Peter, in a Louis XV upholstered armchair, angled toward a blush velvet curtain. At intervals, Lucy comes out from behind the curtain and stands on a stage while Rhonda, the assistant, fusses around her. It is, quite frankly, agonising, for many reasons, not least of which is the fact that Rhonda continues to refer to us as ‘Mum and Dad’ despite that fact that I have twice pointed out that I am not Lucy’s mother, and I am certainly nothers.

‘Ready,’ we chorus.

I think of what my mother would have said if I’d invited her to a place like this. (What a load of nonsense!I’llmake your wedding dress, and Ida and Norma from church will help. Ida did the most beautiful little rosettes for her niece Geraldine’s wedding dress, you should have seen them! Of course she had to let it out because the poor dear had thickened up around the middle by the big day. Got everyone talking, you know . . .)

I’ll admit I was surprised when Lucy invited me today (apparently the matron of honour’s daughter broke her arm falling from the monkey bars this morning and is currently at the children’s hospital awaiting surgery, and Lucy wants a female opinion). It is quite the unorthodox little group actually, with Lucy’s father in attendance as well, but Lucy was firm about that. ‘He’s been my mother as well as my father since I was thirteen years old, I think he’s more than earned his place here.’

Fair enough too, I think, though I daren’t give my opinion either way. Mothers may weigh in on such matters. Mothers-in-law must wear beige and shut up.

Funnily enough, Lucy was quite shy when she asked me to come. ‘I’m sure you’re really busy, but just in case you are free, I’d love it if you could make it.’

As fate would have it, I wasn’t busy, and I’ve never been much good at making up excuses. Nettie was invited too, apparently, but she has a conflicting doctor’s appointment, much to her chagrin.

‘Here she comes!’ Rhonda cries, flinging open the velvet curtain and frogmarching Lucy onto the stage in a dress that looks exactly like the last one—strapless and full skirted, like Barbie pressed into a child’s birthday cake. She forces Lucy to do a ridiculous twirl.

‘Do you like it?’ Lucy asks shyly.

Peter tears up, predictably. He rises to his feet, the archetypal ex-professor, from his tweed jacket to his soft white beard and leather lace-up shoes. He produces a handkerchief from his pocket and presses it to his eyes.

‘I think we can take that as an approval,’ Rhonda says, thrilled. ‘And what do you think, Mum?’

Everyone looks at me.

All I can think is the whole thing is monstrously indulgent. The dress, the blush curtains, the Louis XV chairs. But what am I supposed to say?

‘Doesn’t she look beautiful?’ Rhonda prompts.

Lucy is a pretty girl, certainly, but I’ve come to realise that one of the most interesting things about her is her unusual style—the clashing prints, the pops of colour, the sequins all over everything. Today, when she arrived at the bridal shop, she was wearing an enormous wide-brimmed straw hat and clogs.Clogs!It was a little over the top, if you ask me, but you can’t deny the girl made a statement. In this dress, however, she looks utterly forgettable. A classic generic bride.

‘Well, I think it’s—’

‘What do you think, Lucy?’ Peter says, emerging from behind his handkerchief. ‘Do you love it?’

A cautious smile appears on Lucy’s face. ‘I do.’

At this, Rhonda takes off for the back room, returning with a veil that she affixes to Lucy’s head, and a plastic bouquet of roses for her to hold. It is such a sales strategy I find myself glaring at her. Not that there’s anything wrong with making a sale, of course, one needs to earn a living. But this feels untoward somehow, coercive.

Peter clears his throat. ‘Okay, Rhonda. What’s the damage?’