PART 1: THE DINNER

The night before my mother was supposed to meet my future mother-in-law, she placed her nicest dress across the bed and carefully smoothed every crease.

“Do you think Clarissa will like me?” she asked.

I smiled and told her the truth.

“You’re impossible not to love.”

She smiled back, but I could see how nervous she was.

Clarissa had insisted that their first meeting take place at one of the most expensive restaurants downtown. My mother had offered to host dinner at her house, where the atmosphere would be warmer and more comfortable, but Clarissa refused.

“She said the restaurant would be neutral ground,” I explained.

My mother quietly accepted the decision. She was the kind of person who avoided conflict, even when staying silent hurt her.

Unfortunately, I was the same way.

On the morning of the dinner, I woke up with a pounding headache and a high fever. When my mother touched my forehead, she immediately told me I was staying home.

“I have to go,” I argued. “Clarissa will be offended if we cancel.”

“You can barely stand.”

Eventually, I convinced my mother to attend without me. She hesitated at the front door, clutching her purse tightly.

“I’m going to look so out of place,” she whispered. “Clarissa and her family live in a completely different world.”

“You belong anywhere you walk into,” I assured her.

She kissed my forehead and left.

As soon as the door closed, uneasiness settled over me.

I already knew how Clarissa behaved around food. For more than a year, she and her sisters, Beatrice and Evelyn, had attended nearly every dinner my fiancé and I hosted. They never brought anything, ate enormous portions, and often left carrying containers of leftovers.

Whenever I complained, my fiancé defended them.

“That’s just how my family is,” he would say. “Mom means well.”

So I stayed quiet.

That evening, Clarissa arrived at the restaurant with both sisters beside her.

The waiter had barely passed out the menus when Clarissa began ordering lobster, premium steak, expensive appetizers, wine, and signature cocktails.

My mother looked at the prices and quietly ordered a salad.

“A salad?” Beatrice laughed. “This is supposed to be a celebration.”

“I’m on a budget,” my mother admitted.

The three women ignored her discomfort and continued ordering. For nearly two hours, they ate while my mother sipped water and tried to make polite conversation.

When the table was finally cleared, Clarissa called for the check.

“Bring it to her,” she instructed, pointing at my mother.

My mother stared at her.

“To me?”

Clarissa smiled.

“It’s tradition. The bride’s mother pays when the families meet for the first time.”

My mother had never heard of such a tradition. She explained that she could not afford the entire meal, especially when she had ordered only a salad.

Clarissa’s expression turned cold.

“If you didn’t understand the tradition, that’s your problem.”

The bill was more than $1,700.

My mother’s face burned with embarrassment.

“I don’t have that kind of money,” she whispered.

“Not my concern,” Clarissa replied.

Then she and her sisters stood, put on their coats, and walked out of the restaurant laughing.

They left my mother alone with the bill.

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