When Love Goes Bad

by AnonYMous

  “Why, how nice,” she said, setting the bag on her highly polished coffee table. She took out the wine with a nod of approval, then discovered the package. “Oh, my,” she said with obvious delight, “This, too?”

  “It’s just a little something I picked up at the last minute,” I said, giving Christian a conspiratorial glance. “I hope you like it.”

  She quickly opened the package to find a scarf with a blue and purple paisley design. “Oh, how lovely,” she said, holding it up. “My favorite colors.”

  “Christian said you liked scarves.”

  She patted his cheek, then turned back to me. “He certainly knows me. Thank you, Morgan.”

  “It’s Megan, Mother,” Christian corrected gently.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, touching my arm.

  “It’s all right,” I said, trying not to attach any significance to it.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s all have a nice glass of wine before dinner.”

  We chatted for a little while over small appetizer plates of cheese and olives. Mrs. Thomlin was anxious to hear about Christian’s latest building project—an elementary school. As I sat quietly by, she doted on every word.

  “And what have you been up to, my dear?” she finally asked me. “How are the wedding plans coming along?”

  “Slowly, but at least the engagement ring has been selected,” I said, holding out my hand.

  “Isn’t it just perfect?” she said, examining it more closely. “I was all too happy to oblige when Christian asked me to help. In fact, I know a lot about furniture, too. I’ll be only too happy to help you with that.”

  I shifted uncomfortably. “Well, thank you, but I don’t think that will be much of a problem.”

  Dinner was delicious. The lasagna had a thick, creamy topping and the homemade breadsticks were crisp and tasty. A nice green salad rounded out the meal.

  “You’re a very good cook, Mrs. Thomlin,” I said.

  “Thank you. I’ve worked hard to please Christian. He was a finicky eater as a child. Now, I’m afraid I’ve gone and spoiled him. He’ll come home from restaurants and say, ‘That lasagna wasn’t half as good as yours, Mom,’ or he’ll just show up some evenings and say, ‘I’m hungry for one of your egg sandwiches.’”

  Christian smiled at her.

  “Can you cook, Morgan. . .I mean Megan? I’m sorry. I’m not as good with names as I used to be.”

  “I’m still learning,” I said awkwardly. “Being single, I haven’t had anyone to cook for but myself.”

  “Don’t let that worry you,” she said. “I can be there faster than you can shout ‘help.’ In fact,” she said, turning to Christian, “we’ll still have our little dinners here as often as we can. Only, this time, there will be three of us.”

  Christian nodded.

  I smiled congenially, but inside I felt a growing unease. Just how much was Christian’s mother going to interject herself into our lives?

  Mrs. Thomlin got up. “I’ll get dessert. The peach cobbler is still warm. Just right for a scoop of ice cream.”

  “Plain would be fine with me,” I said. I wanted to lose a few pounds for my wedding.

  “It just wouldn’t be the same without vanilla ice cream, dear,” she insisted. “Taste it and you’ll see what I mean.”

  Christian turned to me with a grin after she left the room. “In case you haven’t noticed,” he whispered, “it’s very hard to say no to Mother.”

  I nodded uneasily.

  Mrs. Thomlin breezed back into the dining room. She served large portions for Christian and me and a small one for herself.

  It was as good as it looked. Christian ate heartily. At one point, his mother paused and touched a napkin to a tiny spot of ice cream on the front of his shirt.

  “You can leave that here if you like,” she said. “It’s best to treat stains early. You’ve got other shirts upstairs in your closet.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” he said. “I’ll do that.”

  I bristled slightly. Christian wasn’t a baby. He was a grown man and I didn’t like seeing him treated that way—even if his mother meant no harm.

  Over coffee, Mrs. Thomlin said, “Megan, about having the wedding at St. Mark’s, I was out of place in suggesting that. I’m sorry. I’m afraid I just got carried away in my excitement. Of course you would want to have it in your own church.”

  A feeling of relief washed over me. “It’s very easy to get excited over a wedding, isn’t it? Please don’t think anything of it.”

  “Why don’t we go upstairs?” she said. “There’s something very special I’d like to show you.”

  I searched Christian’s face for clues, but there were none.

  Christian took her arm as they climbed the stairs, and I followed. She led us into her bedroom, a cozy room with pale green wallpaper, dark heirloom furniture, and clusters of family pictures. Baby pictures of Christian, which were enlargements of what I’d already seen, hung on the wall.

  Mrs. Thomlin opened her closet door and removed a long, flat box. She set it on the bed and opened it. Underneath several layers of tissue was an ivory satin wedding gown with a high neck and pearl buttons down the front. The sleeves came to a point at the wrist and there were finger loops to keep the points in place. The gown was very plain, almost tailored, and had yellowed with age. Although it might have been stylish for a young bride of another era, it was dowdy by today’s standards.

  “This was my wedding gown,” she explained proudly, spreading it out on the bed. “It was also my mother’s.”

  “That’s amazing,” I said. “And it looks like it’s still in very good condition.”

  “Oh, it is,” Mrs. Thomlin said. “It’s nearly sixty years old. I’ve had it looked at by a conservator and I’ve taken the best of care of it. If only Sarah had lived to wear it.” Sarah was Christian’s sister who had died shortly after birth of a heart defect.

  “Yes, that’s a shame,” I concurred.

  “But now that you’re the closest thing I have to a daughter, I want you to wear it,” she said.

  I felt a jolt of surprise. “But I couldn’t,” I said, comparing the drab, limp and yellowed gown to the billowing, white, strapless dress I’d envisioned. “It’s delicate and it probably wouldn’t fit.”

  “It’s not delicate at all,” she countered. “It’s heavy satin. The conservator said it could withstand another wearing. And, we’re practically the same size, except I’m just a little taller.”

  I glanced nervously at Christian, hoping he would intervene, but he said nothing.

  “I appreciate how you feel about the dress, but I already have one in mind,” I said.

  “Have you bought it yet?” she asked.

  “No, but—”

  “No problem, then. It would mean so much to me if you wore it, Megan. All these years, I’ve never gotten over my little Sarah. In a sense, you’d be going down the aisle for her.”

  “Mrs. Thomlin, I can understand how you must feel—”

  “Oh, you couldn’t unless you’ve been there. It would make me so happy to have you wear it. In fact, I’ve already made arrangements with an alteration lady.”

  I bit my lip to keep from expressing my dismay. Heat popped out on my cheeks. If I didn’t wear the gown, I’d upset Christian’s mother. If I wore it, I’d be upsetting my own special day. All I could hope was that he could make her understand my point of view.

  Mrs. Thomlin picked up a gold-filigreed frame containing her own wedding picture. She was standing on a riser and the short train of the gown rippled down the steps. “I’d like to have you posed just like this.”

  She grabbed a second portrait, one of her mother, a serious-looking woman in a forties pompadour, in the same pose. “The three pictures would make a wonderful heirloom, wouldn’t they?”

  I couldn’t disagree, but I still didn’t want to relinquish my wedding plans to a domineering future mother-in-law. Again, I looked to Christian for support, but
he stood by in silence.

  “I’m afraid it’s getting late and I’m tired,” I said. “I worked late several nights this week. The wonderful dinner and the wine have also made me drowsy. I’m afraid I’m past the point where I’d make good company. I hope you’ll understand, Mrs. Thomlin.”

  She looked slightly baffled. “Why, certainly. Christian, why don’t you take her home? You can come back later, if you like. You know what a night owl I am.”

  “Of course, Mother,” he said, helping her put the dress away.

  My stomach was still in a knot when we got into to the car.

  “Christian, I don’t want to wear that gown,” I said plainly.

  He turned toward me. “Why not? It would mean so much to her.”

  “Brides choose their own gowns and that one is not my choice.”

  “I know, but a gown is a gown, isn’t it? Is it really worth hurting Mother’s feelings over?”

  I swallowed hard. “What about my feelings? Is it too much to want to wear my own special gown, one I’ll choose with my own mother?”

  Christian said nothing.

  “Hurting your mother’s feelings is not something I want to do, but I’ve been put in a very awkward position and I’d like for you to help me get out of it.”

  “How do you mean?”

  I looked at him in disbelief. “Tell your mother that I already have a gown in mind. I’m asking you for your support, Christian.”

  “You’re putting me in a difficult position.”

  I sucked in a deep breath. “You’re her son. She’d accept it better from you than from me.”

  He frowned. “I don’t know.”

  A mixture of anger and disappointment welled inside me. This was our first real argument and ironically, it was over our wedding. “Why can’t you see my side of it, Christian?”

  “You’re asking me to get between the two of you and I can’t do that,” he said. “I love you both.”

  “I guess you’d better take me home,” I said.

  When we got back to my apartment, Christian kissed me goodnight as if nothing had happened. He left me with a dull ache in the center of my chest. Was I being selfish not to indulge Christian’s mother? I picked up the bridal magazine in which I’d found the perfect gown, but tonight, I could barely look at it.

  I got up and phoned Molly, my matron of honor.

  “Hey, Meg, what’s up?”

  “We’ve been best friends for several years and I need your honest opinion about something?”

  “Sure.”

  I told her about the wedding gown dilemma and how Christian essentially took his mother’s side instead of mine. When I finished, there was silence at the other end of the line. “Mol, are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m here. I was just thinking of how to put this. You want me to be honest, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think that if Christian’s mother is a problem now, she’ll be even a bigger problem in the future. She could even wreck your marriage.”

  I bristled slightly. “It’s not that bad,” I countered.

  “Well, what about that day she walked in on the two of you?”

  “That was an accident.”

  “She picked out your wedding ring, didn’t she?”

  “Well, yes, but I’d already narrowed it down to two choices, and she does know more about diamonds—”

  “Megan, it still says a lot about the role she has in his life—a role she isn’t going to easily give up. What about when she tried to get you to have the wedding in her church?”

  “She changed her mind about that. But something tells me she’s not going to change her mind about the dress.”

  “Then, you’ll just have to tell her no.”

  “It’s easy for you to say. I’d end up making her mad and probably him, too. What I need is some support from Christian.”

  “It sounds like he’s not anxious to give it,” she said.

  My nerves tingled. “You make it sound hopeless.”

  “Megan, I want you to be happy,” she insisted. “You asked me for advice and there it is.”

  I hung up, haunted by her words. Molly was my matron of honor. How could she be so negative? Christian was the kindest, sweetest guy I’d ever met. We got along well and had similar interests. Despite it all, I still liked his mother. She loved her son and who could fault her for that? This couldn’t be such a problem that we couldn’t work it out on our own.

  Then, an idea flashed in my head. I could wear the gown of my choice to the wedding, and then wear Mrs. Thomlin’s during part of the reception. I could even plan a little program around it to tell the guests of its history.

  Excitedly, I called Christian, but there was no answer. There was little doubt in my mind that he was still at his mother’s.

  My own mother called early the following morning.

  “Your aunt Linda just called and said she’s coming to the family reunion after all,” she said. “She can’t wait to meet Christian. The whole family is excited. So far, over one hundred people are coming.”

  “I can’t wait to introduce him, Mom. Everyone will love him, just as I do.”

  I didn’t see Christian again until late that evening. He had some building plans he needed to finish for a Monday presentation. He was barely inside my door when I told him my solution to the wedding dress problem.

  “It sounds like a good idea to me,” he said.

  I hugged him in relief. “You really think she’ll like it?”

  He shrugged. “Call her up and see.”

  “Why don’t you suggest it to her? Make her think it was her idea.”

  He laughed nervously. “No, I’m not too good at that sort of thing. You tell her. You’re the bride.”

  “I will, but will you support me if there’s a fallout?”

  “Megan, please don’t put me in the middle again.”

  I experienced a sinking feeling again. “Christian, you’re in the middle by choice. Sometimes, you’re going to have to take sides. You need to learn to be more assertive with your mother.”

  His expression hardened. “What do you mean by that?”

  “She treats you like a child. Doesn’t it bother you?”

  “Should it? After all, I am her child. I always will be no matter how old I get.”

  My shoulders sagged with frustration. I saw that this conversation was going nowhere. My head was starting to ache.

  I tried to inject cheer in my voice to smooth over the tension between us. “Speaking of mothers,” I continued, “you’ll be seeing mine again at the family reunion next weekend. Everybody is dying to meet you. I haven’t seen some of my aunts and uncles since middle school.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” he said.

  “Get ready to get hugged a lot—my family is like that.” I hoped that he would also see what a more normal family relationship was like.

  We were finalizing plans for the three-hour drive when a deeply strained look came over his face. He pulled a small date book from the inside pocket of his jacket and flipped through the pages.

  “I’m afraid we’ve got a problem here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m scheduled to take Mother to an antiques show on Saturday.”

  I stared at him with alarm. “But how can that be? You’ve known about the reunion for weeks.”

  “I guess I just failed to note it on my calendar.”

  “But we have to go to the reunion. Everyone is expecting us.”

  “I have to take Mother to the antiques show. It’s a two-hour drive. The tickets have been bought and the room has been booked. She even has an appointment with a dealer to discuss some jewelry.”

  “Can’t she go alone?”

  He shook his head. “She can’t handle city traffic. She’ll be carrying valuable items and I won’t have her putting herself in danger.”

  Hurt, anger, and disappointment welled up inside me. “Christian, you know how important t
his reunion is to me. All my relatives are expecting to meet you. They’re coming from all over.”

  “We can meet at the wedding, can’t we?”

  Tears formed in my eyes. “Do you know what you’re doing, Christian? You’re putting your mother’s wishes over mine, time after time. Her feelings matter more than mine.”

  His eyes narrowed. “That’s not true.”

  “Then come to the reunion.”

  “I—I couldn’t. I’ve already promised Mother.”

  “Couldn’t you arrange for a friend to drive her?”

  “Her friends are her age and older.”

  A knot formed in my throat. This was the telling moment. I couldn’t gloss over things any longer. “Christian, we’ve got problems. I don’t think we should get married without seeing a counselor first.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s your mother. She’s in the way of our relationship.”

  He paled. “I can’t help it if I have a mother who happens to be very dependent on me. What do you want me to do, ignore her? I don’t understand.”

  “That’s exactly why we need to go to a counselor.”

  He shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t be comfortable with that.”

  I struggled to keep from crying. “Then I don’t think we should be getting married, Christian. There’s only room for two people in a marriage. Your mother doesn’t want to let you go and I don’t think you really want her to. I love you, but I’m afraid that this just isn’t going to work.”

  He stared at me in silence. “All right,” he said finally. “Whatever you want.”

  He got up and kissed me lightly on the forehead. “I’m sorry—really sorry.”

  As soon as he left, I burst into tears.

  As much as it hurt to break our engagement, I’ve never doubted that it was for the best. It’s so easy to try to deny problems when you’re in love, to pretend things will work themselves out once you’re married. I was finally forced to face the truth—that Christian’s mother would always come first.

  What has become clearer over time, is that the real problem was not Christian’s mother as much as it was Christian himself. Christian was more child than man. His emotional dependence on his mother left him without the strength and maturity to be a good husband.