Red Flags

Tara

“You’re not seriously going to wear an off-the-shoulder dress, are you?” I heard Susan’s voice behind me, booming through the bridal boutique.

The chaos of wedding planning often felt like a whirlwind, but Sam and I had quiet moments of connection, which made the gauntlet of bridal boutiques tolerable, even with Susan.

I’d asked her to accompany my mother and me, hoping to appease her. But it wasn’t working.

I froze, meeting her critical look in the mirror. Her voice was authoritative.

I ran my hand over the raw silk skirt. It was the first dress I truly loved. Susan’s cutting words brought everything to a halt.

Before I could speak, my mom stepped in, her voice calm yet firm.

“Tara, you look stunning,” she said, meeting Susan’s gaze.

Susan made a face and said nothing.

My face turned red as my mom placed her hand on my shoulder. Later, Sam murmured, 'That dress sounds beautiful. Don't let her dim that.' It was a small comfort, but Susan’s opinions cropped up everywhere, including at our meeting with the florist.

Stepping inside the shop, the smell of fresh flowers calmed my nerves. I had magazine clippings with ideas: pink and white, an airy feeling.

“I’d love an arrangement of pink and white roses with some lily of the valley, soft and romantic,” I explained, gesturing to photos. “I’d prefer the look of holding a natural bunch of flowers.”

Before the florist could respond, Susan stepped forward.

“You know, Sam and Tara should hand each mother in attendance a rose. Wouldn’t that be a nice touch?” I bit my lip, my heart sinking. Susan’s words felt like a subtle way of erasing my ideas. I glanced at my mom, pleading for backup.

“We won’t be doing that,” my mom said, polite but resolute. “It’s their wedding, not Mother’s Day.”

Susan looked taken aback, then huffed.

My mom squeezed my arm, filling me with relief. Thank you, Mom, I thought. But as the wedding day crept closer, Susan’s interference started to grate.

Wedding planning wasn’t my only focus; I loved my job as a buyer trainee. Work offered reprieve from Susan’s critical influence. I aimed to become an assistant buyer at Kassar, a highly competitive promotion.

With the wedding two weeks away, I began the training program while Sam and I settled into our new home. Work comforted me, keeping my mind off the wedding. My planner was filled with reminders for work and the wedding. Vendors to confirm, appetizers to finalize, last-minute details. My supervisor hinted at the assistant buyer position.

At home, wedding prep kept me busy. Half-written thank-you notes, reminders, and invitations filled the kitchen table. Sam glanced casually at the scattered materials,

“How’s it going?” he asked late one evening.

Our new house, though still mostly empty boxes, hummed with the promise of our future. One evening, after a long day of work, Sam and I had ordered pizza and sat on the floor of what would be our living room, sketching out furniture ideas on a napkin. 'This,' he’d said, looking around at the bare walls, 'is going to be ours. Every corner, every memory.' The ease and certainty in his voice were a balm. It was moments like those, infused with quiet anticipation and shared dreams, that were the real foundation of our love, and what made the frantic wedding prep tolerable

Sam hadn’t moved in. His plans were still in the air.

Sam cleared his throat. I suspected I wouldn’t like what he was about to say.

“About moving in…” His voice trailed off. “I won’t be able to move in until after the wedding. Mom’s rule.”

I nodded slowly, absorbing his words. “Right, of course,” I said, hoping he didn’t hear the sarcasm.

Sam then pulled me into an embrace. “We’ll figure it out,” he said softly.

He was tense, and I didn’t believe him. But I needed to stay focused.

Pastor Don’s voice echoed: “You’ll need to establish your own space, away from outside influences. That will be essential for the health of your marriage.”

“What do you mean by outside influences?” I had asked him.

Pastor Don took some time before responding. We had visited his office many times. He was a constant figure in Sam’s life and would perform our ceremony. But I detected a change in his tone whenever Susan’s name came up.

The DeYoung family gave generously to the church. Sam seemed to flinch when Susan’s name was mentioned in counseling.

“I’ve known Sam’s family for years,” he finally answered. “Sometimes, expectations can come between you. You must be aware of how outside influences can affect you two.”

Sam nodded, but I could see the doubt in his eyes.

I heard his warning clearly. “Remember, it’s your marriage. Sometimes, you must draw a line. I believe Sam’s mother will be the biggest obstacle.”

With Susan’s latest rule hovering, I recalled another conversation with a new friend, Khaki.

I’d met Khaki during my second week of buyer training. Over lunch, she asked how Sam and I met; I recounted how he had circled my photo in a college directory.

“And now you’re two weeks from the aisle,” she said, smiling warmly.

“Yeah,” I replied, my smile faltering slightly. “His mom is different.”

Khaki shook her head. “My husband’s family was different from mine.”

She gave me a small smile. “So what did you do?”

“Well,” she said, “it’s up to you what you choose to allow. You can only control yourself.”

I thought about what she said. I loved Sam, and I knew he loved me. We enjoyed each other’s company. Surely, we could figure out this family stuff.

Two weeks dwindled to one day, then to one single moment. We held our rehearsal dinner in a small chapel. Friends and family lingered, trying to avoid glancing toward the doors.

Susan and Jerry were conspicuously absent, forty-five minutes past our starting time.

When the double wooden doors finally creaked open, my father looked down at his watch, frowning.

“Greetings!” Susan’s voice rang out, flagrant and disregarding everyone’s discomfort.

They did not apologize or acknowledge their late arrival. Their presence carried an undeniable air of superiority.

“Hello,” I replied evenly, keeping my tone far less ruffled than I felt. No point in pushing back, not here.

So we carried on.

Sam and I had always had an effortless connection, right from that first dizzying laugh over coffee. We shared a dry wit and a mutual understanding. I remembered a rainy afternoon, early in our courtship, tucked away in a quiet bookstore, just reading silently beside each other, his hand finding mine. It wasn't grand gestures; it was that profound sense of peace and belonging that made me believe we had a love that was once in a lifetime.

I had just turned twenty-four. My parents were the opposite of Sam’s, offering constant support and strength. I’d inherited a spicy yet kind demeanor; I’d learned to question my surroundings. They gave me a sturdy foundation.

Since dating Sam, his family treated me as an outsider. Our relationship tensed whenever his family was involved, especially Susan. Over the last year, Susan’s unsolicited opinions and blatant disrespect made me question what I wasn’t seeing. I had a fitful night of sleep. Was this what marriage would be like? Constantly worrying about Susan, biting my tongue to avoid rocking the boat? How would our lives play out? I still didn’t have answers.

The following morning, as the lace veil settled, raindrops streaked the stained-glass windows, and I was both resolved and excited. I knew what Sam and I had, and we would carve out our own life together.

Then Susan’s voice cut through the moment like a jagged knife.

“I feel like I’m at a funeral.”

My bridesmaids’ laughter evaporated, replaced by stunned silence.

Lynne, my college roommate, stiffened beside me. “Did she just say that?” Lynne hissed.

I met her condescending eyes in the mirror and forced a smile. I could see a red blotch breaking out on my chest.

“Ignore her,” I whispered, more to myself.

I felt a lump in my throat, but I was determined. I would not let Susan upset me. The chatter resumed, and Susan’s negativity slowly dissipated. Still, I couldn’t stop thinking about her rudeness.

Is it my insecurities? But no, I wasn’t going to think about this.

I put my thoughts aside as my dad appeared. I was relieved. Dad had always kept me safe.

“Are you ready?” he said, holding out his arm, tears on his face.

I took a couple of breaths, prayed not to cry, and took his arm.

As we entered the back of the chapel, I saw Sam at the altar, smiling at me.

Our eyes met, and my tears began. This was it! Our love story.

I kept my gaze on Sam as my father and I began our walk down the aisle. Our future together, I kept thinking.

Yet, as my eyes swept over the front row, I caught sight of Susan. Her expression was unreadable, her posture rigid. I walked by their pew.

“You will learn to do it my way.”

Her lips hadn’t moved. How had I heard her message so clearly?

And then we were there—just Sam and I—smiling at the altar. Pastor Don marrying us, beaming as we climbed into the back of the limo.

In the father-daughter dance, I spun across the ballroom floor. I couldn’t have been happier. All my wedding dreams and the people I love were here.

All except Susan. She approached me while my mother and I chatted by the dessert table. Her eyes lingered on the cheesecake centerpiece.

“Cheesecake?” she said, feigning curiosity. “Interesting.”

I forced a steady smile. “It’s amaretto flavored—Sam’s and my favorite.”

“It’s delicious,” my mother added warmly. “Tara put so much thought into every detail.”

Susan’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Interesting,” she murmured again, leaving a chilly wake.

Why did I hear the music for the Wicked Witch of the West every time she was around me? My mother squeezed my hand gently.

“Don’t let her get to you,” she said softly. “This day is yours.”

I nodded, but Susan’s negativity lingered. Her words, tone, and presence felt cruel, pulling me away from happiness.

Sam’s arm tightened around my waist as we rode the elevator to our suite. “Exhausted already, Mrs. DeYoung?” he teased.

I sighed, leaning into him. “Completely. And don’t call me that. I never want to be your mother.”

He laughed softly. “You could never be her; you are too honest.”

The phone rang as we entered our suite.

Sam looked at me, then answered. “Yes, Mom,” I heard him say. “I have my suitcase. Goodnight.” He hung up, his face showing slight discomfort.

“She’s just adjusting,” I offered, though the words felt like an excuse.

“Maybe,” he replied, his honesty cutting through my pretense.

Later, as I lay beside him, Susan’s words replayed. This call was an intrusion. Could our love withstand her influence?

We flew to Angola for our honeymoon—a paradise. Lush jungles, dark water, vibrant sunsets. Sam and I laughed as we explored in our rented jeep, finding secluded beaches, swimming with fish. We made memories, just like we dreamed. I believed we had left all our issues behind.

Yet even here, Susan’s presence interfered.

Sam left the pool before I did. When I opened the door, I heard him talking on the phone, laughing, telling of our adventures.

I knew exactly who he was talking to.

When he ended the call, my question cut through the silence.

“You were talking to your Mom?” I knew the answer.

We were thousands of miles away, yet he needed to call his mom. It was our honeymoon; calling my parents hadn’t crossed my mind.

I looked out at the ocean; I had never encountered someone like Susan. I realized it was strange.

I didn’t question him further.

Sam and I had tiptoed around his family’s expectations. Having never had family pressures, I didn’t know what lay ahead. What I didn’t know yet was this: love wouldn’t be what saved us. It would be what made me stay far longer than I should have.

Susan

"Honestly, I couldn't believe my eyes. Tara, in what she thought was a wedding dress. "You're not seriously going to wear an off-the-shoulder dress, are you?" I asked. Someone had to tell her. I'd graciously agreed to accompany her and her mother, thinking I could inject some elegance. Clearly, I was mistaken.

She actually froze. I just looked at her, waiting. That raw silk was so pedestrian. Before I could enlighten her, her mother chimed in with saccharine nonsense about Tara looking "stunning." No taste. I just made a face. Tara's face turned red. They both clearly needed my guidance.

Weeks later, at the florist, the same story unfolded. She was clutching her magazine clippings, talking about "pink and white" and "airy feelings." Good heavens. "I'd love an arrangement of pink and white roses with some lily of the valley, soft and romantic," she prattled. It was dreadfully common.

I had to intervene. "You know," I suggested, "in the receiving line, Sam and Tara should hand each mother a rose. Wouldn't that be a nice touch?" A brilliant idea. Tara actually bit her lip. Her mother, of course, had to jump in again. "We won't be doing that," she announced. "It's their wedding, not Mother's Day." The audacity! I was genuinely surprised. I huffed and stepped back. Her mother then squeezed Tara's arm, filling her head with silly notions.

Honestly, wedding planning was a chore, especially with Tara's ideas. Luckily, I had my own life to manage. My son, Sam, was getting married, and I had to ensure everything was perfect for his future. Tara meant well, but she lacked a discerning eye. Her "buyer trainee" job was a fleeting distraction. Adorable.

Two weeks before the wedding, the chaos Tara was creating was unbearable. Sam had to insist they not move in together before the wedding. It was my rule, for his own good. "I won't be able to move in until after the wedding. Mom's rule," he told her. She actually nodded slowly. The girl has no concept of what's truly important. Pastor Don, a dear family friend, tried to share wisdom about "outside influences," clearly hinting at me. Honestly, he doesn't understand a mother's guidance. Sam knows who has his best interests at heart.

Even Tara's new "friend," Khaki, tried to give misguided advice about "controlling yourself." As if. Tara's so naive.

Then came the rehearsal dinner. Jerry and I were fashionably late. Tara's father actually frowned. The lack of respect for our busy schedules was appalling. "Greetings!" I announced. They didn't even apologize for starting without us! I just sailed past them.

I did try to be supportive, but Tara made it so difficult. Her family, with their "constant support," had given her an inflated sense of self-importance. She had the nerve to have a "fitful night of sleep" worrying about me. The drama!

The next morning, the rain was dreadful, mirroring the dreary chapel. 'I feel like I'm at a funeral,' I remarked. One of the bridesmaids stiffened. Really, no composure. Tara just forced a smile and whispered, 'Ignore her.' As if ignoring reality made it disappear. It was a reflection of the situation.

As Tara walked towards Sam, her eyes sweeping the crowd, I met her gaze. She needs to understand this marriage works best when there's clear direction. Sam deserves a wife who can adapt and understand how things are done in our family. She'll see, eventually. It wasn't a warning, merely a statement of fact.

The reception was underwhelming. Cheesecake? For a wedding cake? "Cheesecake?" I inquired, conveying my disbelief. "Interesting." She claimed it was "amaretto flavored—Sam's and my favorite." Tara's mother, of course, had to jump in again. 'It's delicious,' she gushed. 'Tara put so much thought into every detail.' Honestly, Tara's idea of 'thought' was choosing pedestrian options. 'Interesting,' I murmured again, leaving them.

Later, in their honeymoon suite, Sam actually called me; he knows who truly cares. "Yes, Mom," he said. "I have my suitcase. Goodnight."

Then, on their honeymoon, Sam called me again. He has to check in. She actually confronted him! "You were talking to your Mom?" she accused. Honestly, the jealousy! He was telling me about their adventures. Someone has to keep track. She has no idea, does she? She thinks "love" will save them. Poor, naive girl. She has no idea what's coming.