Nobody seemed to notice my agitation, perhaps because everyone already knew Patricia and knew that “she always does as she pleases.”
But I wasn’t the type to swallow my feelings indefinitely. So I discreetly stepped out, under the pretext of fixing my dress train, and called someone who had promised to help me in case of an emergency.
My father.
A simple man, raised with dignity in the countryside, who believed that a wedding is a moment when two families come together, not trample over each other. I said just this: “Dad, it’s time. Bring Mr. Viorel.”
He didn’t ask anything.
Ten minutes later, in the salon decorated with lace and warm lights, Viorel, the musician from our village, entered. He wasn’t on the guest list. He didn’t match the “elegant” music that had been playing until then. But he had something that Patricia didn’t have: respect for the bride.
In the middle of the official dance, I took the microphone and said:
“Tonight is not just about a couple. It is about honoring the bond between two families and respecting each other. Therefore, I would like to dedicate this special dance to my mother-in-law, Mrs. Patricia.”
A silence fell over the room. Patricia was already smiling, convinced that I had given in.
Then, Viorel began to play.
But not just any song.
It was a lively Oltenian dance that you can’t easily escape. A rhythmic, bouncy song that pulls you into the middle of the dance floor and doesn’t let you sit down. The crowd burst into laughter, and Patricia, visibly embarrassed, was pushed forward by a few amused guests.
“Come on, madam, dance! It’s your song!”
She danced. She sweated. She tried to leave, but Viorel changed the rhythm, moving to a spinning hora that made her even dizzier. Meanwhile, Ethan looked at me in shock. I took his hand and said:
“If you want our life to work, you need to understand something: the woman next to you is me. Not your mother. And if you can’t set a boundary now, I will.”
He said nothing, but he stood up. He went to the bride’s table, took his mother’s chair, and moved it to another table. Without words. Just with a gesture.
Patricia stopped dancing. She looked at her son, then at me, and quietly sat down.
For the first time that day, I felt that it was my wedding.
And in that moment, as applause rang out and Viorel rested his accordion, I knew that if we could get through that beginning, nothing would shake us again.
Not even a mother-in-law dressed in white.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher do not assume responsibility for the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed belong to the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
