My mother-in-law wore white to our wedding—yes, white. A full-length lace dress that looked suspiciously bridal. She even insisted on riding in the same car with us and sat beside my groom, leaving me squished in the back.

At the registry office, she stood right next to us, inserting herself into every photo and even “fixing” my veil while muttering, “Everything’s crooked on you.” At the reception, she acted like the hostess—adjusting music, criticizing the food, and whispering constantly to my husband.

Then came the toast:
“I thought my son would choose differently… but if this is it, then so be it.”

That was the last straw.

So I approached her with a glass of red wine—offering a fake truce. One “accidental” bump later, her white dress was splattered. I sweetly suggested she check the stain in the bathroom… and once she was inside, I locked the stall from the outside.

Returning to the party, I smiled:
“Mom wasn’t feeling well—she went home and asked not to be disturbed.”

The mood instantly lifted. Laughter returned, music flowed, and I finally felt like the bride—not just a bystander in her drama. No regrets.