When Ethan proposed, I knew I wasn’t just marrying him—I was marrying his mother, Patricia, too. From the moment we announced our engagement, she acted like it was her wedding. She criticized my flower choices, my dress, even the menu. I tried to stay gracious, but her constant undermining wore me down.
She insisted on sitting between us at the ceremony. “It’s tradition,” she claimed, though no one had ever heard of it. I agreed, but not out of submission—out of strategy. I had a plan. On the day, she beamed as she took her seat between us, smug and victorious.
But when the officiant asked Ethan to take my hand, I reached across her. The crowd chuckled. Then, when it was time for the kiss, I leaned over her again. Patricia’s face turned crimson. She realized she’d become a prop in our love story, not the star.
After the ceremony, she tried to scold me privately. “You humiliated me,” she hissed. I smiled and said, “You wanted to be in the middle. I just made sure you were.” That was the first time I saw her speechless.
Later, at the reception, she tried to dominate the toast. Ethan interrupted her. “Let’s hear from Julia,” he said. That moment felt like a shift—he was finally choosing me over her. I raised my glass and toasted to boundaries.
Patricia sulked through dinner, barely touching her plate. I served her lasagna, Ethan’s favorite, which she once mocked. “Lasagna isn’t rocket science,” she’d said. But Ethan praised it again, and this time, I didn’t need her approval.
That night, Ethan told me, “You handled her perfectly.” I knew then that I wasn’t just surviving my MIL—I was reclaiming my space. And Patricia? She learned that entitlement doesn’t win when love and wit are stronger.
