When we reached the vows, Beverly struck again.
“I, Brandon, take you, Sylvia, to be my wife, to have and to hold…” Brandon hesitated, frowning, as Beverly appeared at his side.
“Don’t mind me,” she said. “This is just such a big moment.”
The officiant looked at her, then at us. “Let’s give the couple some space, shall we?”
Beverly laughed. She acted like she was just a doting mother who couldn’t bear to be an inch away from her boy. It was “adorable” to everyone else. To me, it was an invasion.
And she didn’t stop there.
Beverly approached us during the reception with a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. She was smiling, but it was the kind of smile a cat gives a mouse.
She reached out to hug Brandon, and the glass tipped. The dark red liquid splashed across my skirt. The stain spread like a wound.
“Oh, goodness! I’m so sorry. I tripped.”
There was nothing for her to trip on. She stood perfectly balanced on her heels.
“Mom, what the heck?” Brandon snapped.
Beverly did not apologize. Instead, she clutched her chest with both hands.
“My heart,” she wheezed. “Brandon, you’re upsetting me. The stress is too much.”
I watched as our guests rushed to her side. Beverly’s sister and nieces escorted her away while whispering their concern.
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