MOTHER OF THE BRIDE

On my wedding morning, Mum was there
she locked my flat and pocketed the key
fussed with my veil and flowers; followed me
who, in long skirts, stepped carefully down the stair.

Inside the hired car she took my hand
and said “My dear, if this does not work out
you’re always welcome home, don’t ever doubt
your Dad and I would surely understand.”

In disbelief I cut her off mid sentence,
for this was not the proper time or place!
To speak so to a bride, such bitter grace,
deserving of some motherly repentance.

It’s only recently, and now she’s dead
I learned she left my father once, and went
back to her parents, who did not relent,
and turned her out; this was the thing unsaid.

My father’s parents were of softer stuff
took her in, though scandalised, of course
My Mum, however, filing for divorce
said thirteen years of marriage was enough.

Persuaded by my father’s intervention
she finally came home, a bargain made;
her bias against motherhood betrayed
and I was born; the price of her redemption.