At his wedding, my son screamed, “Get out. She doesn’t want you here.” I walked out silently, tears streaming. The next day, he called like nothing had happened.
“Mom, give me the mansion keys.
We’re honeymooning there.”
I gave him the keys with a smile. When they turned on the TV in the master bedroom, there was a nice video of his bride playing on every channel.
If you’re watching this, subscribe and let me know where you’re watching from. I’m Dorothy Walsh, 67 years old, and apparently the most unwelcome mother-in-law in Connecticut.
But let me backtrack to how I got my perfect revenge on the woman who stole my son and the son who betrayed me.
The wedding was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. I’d spent three months helping plan every detail, from the flowers to the catering menu, down to the little place cards printed on thick cream paper. I’d even bought a beautiful navy dress that complemented Sophia’s color scheme, the kind of dress a widow saves for—structured shoulders, a modest neckline, and the faintest shimmer when the light hit it.
Everything was perfect until the moment I walked into the reception hall.
“What is she doing here?”
Sophia’s voice cut through the chatter like a knife. She stood there in her five-thousand-dollar dress, pointing at me like I was some unwanted party crasher who’d wandered in off the street.
My son, Michael—the boy I’d raised alone after his father died—just stood there frozen, champagne flute halfway to his mouth. “I invited her,” Michael said weakly.
“She’s my mother.”
“Your mother?”
Sophia’s laugh was sharp and cold.
“The woman who tried to sabotage our engagement. The woman who called me a gold digger at the rehearsal dinner.”
I never called her that, though I certainly thought it. What I actually said was that I hoped they’d discussed their financial expectations for marriage, because love is beautiful and the electric bill doesn’t care.
Apparently, that counted as sabotage in Sophia’s world.
“Get out!”
Michael suddenly exploded, his face red with champagne and anger. “She doesn’t want you here, and honestly, neither do I.
This is supposed to be our day, not another one of your guilt trips.”
The entire reception hall went silent. Two hundred guests stared at me as tears rolled down my cheeks, the band holding their breath like even the instruments didn’t know what to do.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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