**A Fateful Meeting for Margaret: The Drama of Broken Hopes**
I sat in the café, my eyes fixed on the entrance. My fingers drummed nervously against the table, and my thoughts swirled. For the first time in three years of my daughter’s relationship with James, I was about to meet his parents. The moment felt weighty, charged with tension—circumstances had made sure of that.
Just days ago, Emily had blindsided me with the news: at twenty, she was expecting a child. Once the shock had worn off, I’d immediately insisted on marriage. James hadn’t objected, assuring me he was ready to take responsibility for his future family.
*”As if you’d refuse!”* I’d snapped, frustration bubbling up. *”You got my girl into this! She hasn’t even finished university yet. Good grief, Emily, what were you thinking?”*
*”Mum, we were going to get married anyway,”* she’d mumbled, staring at the floor. *”Just… a little sooner than planned.”*
*”A little? This isn’t ‘a little’ anything!”* I’d thrown my hands up. *”Fine. James, ring your parents. It’s time we met.”*
*”They already know,”* he’d murmured, avoiding my gaze.
*”Brilliant. When and where can I see them?”* I’d fixed him with a look sharp enough to cut glass.
*”Wherever you’d like. A café?”* he’d suggested.
*”Tomorrow, seven o’clock, ‘The Sunlit Nook,’”* I’d declared.
James had nodded, promptly ringing his parents to confirm. It struck me as odd they hadn’t invited me to their home, opting instead for neutral ground. A bad feeling prickled the back of my neck, but I brushed it aside.
I arrived early, taking a seat by the window. I didn’t know what James’ parents looked like, so I studied every couple that walked in. Finally, a balding man and a woman with heavy makeup and an immaculate hairstyle strode in. Their confident air left no doubt—this was them.
*”We’re James’ parents,”* the woman announced, her eyes flicking over me as if measuring my worth on some invisible scale.
I noted how tightly her skin clung to her face—too smooth, plumped lips suggesting a fondness for cosmetic procedures.
*”What did you want to discuss?”* she asked, settling opposite me.
*”We need to talk about our children’s wedding, given… the situation,”* I began, trying to steady my voice.
*”If you’d raised your daughter better, there wouldn’t *be* a situation,”* she drawled, folding her arms.
*”Your son’s twenty-three! Doesn’t he understand consequences?”* I shot back, cheeks burning.
She rolled her eyes, glancing at her husband for backup. He cleared his throat. *”Arguing won’t help. We need to sort this out.”*
*”What’s there to sort?”* I frowned. *”Emily’s having the baby, and James will marry her. That’s why I wanted this meeting.”*
*”Marry her?”* She scoffed. *”Trying to pass off your daughter, are you? How *convenient*.”*
*”I won’t let you insult my Emily!”* My hands trembled with fury.
They exchanged smirks. The father—Edward—coughed. *”Alright, James is willing to marry. We won’t stop him…”*
*”I didn’t call you here for nothing,”* I cut in. *”I can’t cover the wedding alone. I need your help.”*
His wife’s face twisted, and I couldn’t help a bitter smile.
*”We’re not pitching in,”* she said coolly. *”A registry office will do. Save the fuss.”*
*”No! My daughter will have a proper wedding!”* I slammed my fist on the table.
*”You want the moon on a stick,”* she laughed, rolling her eyes again. *”Then pay for it yourself.”*
*”Plenty for Botox, but nothing for your son’s wedding?”* I snapped.
*”How I spend my money is none of your concern!”* she hissed. *”If you can’t afford it, that’s your problem.”*
*”You’re clearly not hard up. Why not help?”*
*”I decide where my money goes. Your child’s wedding isn’t my responsibility.”* Her arms folded tighter.
*”Some family you are!”* I threw up my hands. *”The penny-pinching is *obscene*!”*
*”Apologise!”* Edward’s face flushed.
*”For what? Telling the truth?”*
*”Edward, we’re leaving!”* She stood abruptly. *”I’ll talk to James. Better he pays child support than ties himself to your lot!”*
Chins high, they swept out, leaving me alone with my cold coffee. I paid, then trudged home, seething.
Later, I confronted Emily. Turned out, she’d never even met James’ parents. *”It all makes sense now,”* I sighed. *”You’re not good enough for them. All Botox and pride.”*
*”James isn’t like that,”* she sniffled.
*”We’ll see,”* I muttered, not believing it myself.
That evening, James rang Emily. He beat around the bush before admitting marriage and parenthood were “too soon.” The truth was clear—his parents had gotten to him. Three years of love, discarded in an instant.
In the end, caring for Emily and the baby fell to me. When the child arrived, she took James to court, and he was ordered to pay support. Holding my grandson, I whispered, *”We’ll manage. At least I’ve got my girl.”*
But deep down, bitterness lingered. Dreams of her happy wedding had crumbled like sandcastles under the tide of their callousness.
