When I agreed to Patricia’s ridiculous demand on my wedding day to sit between Ethan and me at our reception, I could see the gleam of triumph in her eyes.
She thought she’d won. She thought I’d back down like I always had.
When I got engaged to Ethan, I knew I wasn’t just marrying him.
From the very beginning, she took it upon herself to micromanage my wedding.
“Lilies are too plain,” she’d said during the florist meeting.
“Ethan loves roses. Let’s go with those.”
“Are you sure about something so fitted, Julia?
It might make the ceremony uncomfortable.”
I gritted my teeth and let it slide. Because arguing with Patricia was like reasoning with a storm—you’d just get blown over.
“Lasagna isn’t rocket science, dear,” she said, smiling sweetly as I cleared the dishes.
“A man like Ethan deserves more than just a pretty face and pasta.”
The kicker? Ethan never noticed.
He shrugged it off as harmless. “That’s just Mom,” he’d say, as though that excused it.
The day started beautifully with clear skies, a soft breeze, and every detail as perfect as I’d planned. For a moment, it felt like nothing could ruin it.
Then Patricia arrived.
She was wearing a white, floor-length, rhinestone-studded dress.
For a split second, I thought she’d swapped outfits with me. But no, this was careful.
Ethan barely noticed. He greeted her with a smile while I stood there, stunned.
“Doesn’t he look handsome, Julia?” she beamed, smoothing his tie and kissing his cheek.
“My boy always cleans up so nicely.”
“Patricia,” I said, keeping my voice calm,
“This is the bride and groom’s table.
We’re supposed to sit together.”
“Oh, Julia,” she replied.
“Don’t be so sensitive. I’ve always been the most important woman in Ethan’s life, and that’s not going to change.”
“It’s just a chair, babe. Don’t worry about it.”
Just a chair?
“Okay, Patricia,” I said sweetly, my smile unwavering.
“You’re right. Let’s do it your way.”
I excused myself, stepped out of the room, and pulled out my phone.
“Hi,” I said to the bakery. “This is Julia.
I need a last-minute adjustment to the wedding cake. Yes, it’s urgent. I’ll send you the details and a photo now.”
Fifteen minutes later, the cake was wheeled in.
And then she saw it.
The cake topper was no longer the traditional bride and groom.
Instead, it was a groom and his mother, arm-in-arm, crafted to look just like Ethan and Patricia. Every detail was there—his tie, her pearls.
The room went silent.
Patricia’s face turned crimson. “What… what is this?” she stammered.
“Julia, this is inappropriate,” she hissed, her voice shaking.
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