My mother always found fault with my weight and cared more for looks than people. So when I got betrothed, I thought she would at last cheer and say she was proud of me. I was wrong. My mother said I wasn’t worth the wedding money my late father left behind and gave it to my so-called “fair” cousin instead.
I’m Casey. At 25, I work as a cook and dream of writing and guiding plays and films that’ll make folk cry in the dark for all the right reasons. But my tale? It made me weep for all the wrong ones.
I grew up in a home where we swept even if the floor was clean, where smiles were worn like a mask, and where my mother, Janet, cared more about how things looked than how we truly felt.
It felt like living in a hall of treasures where I was the odd piece that never quite fit. Everything had to look just so from the outside — our grass, holiday greetings, and Sunday talks.
But inside these walls, I learned early on that looks mattered more than feelings, and I was always falling short of my mother’s hopes.
I’m the only child, which you’d think would make me precious. No. It just meant all of Mom’s sharp words fell on me alone.
When my father, Billie, died in my junior school year, something changed in her. The soft words turned loud, harsh, and more often.
“Do you really need more?” she snapped as I reached for more food at dinner. “You’re bursting out of those trousers already.”
Or my worst memory, said during a loud lunch at Romano’s Bistro last spring: “God, slow down. You chew your food like cattle. Could you chew any louder? Everyone’s staring at us.”
The heat rushing to my face that day could have boiled water. I wanted to sink beneath the checked cloth, but instead I pushed my plate away and excused myself to the restroom, where I cried ugly tears onto scratchy towels.
But what kept me going was Dad’s voice echoing from summer evenings on our back porch. He’d sip lemon and honey tea and tell me of the wedding fund he’d set up, how he couldn’t wait to walk me down the aisle one day.
“I might weep like a child,” he said, grinning. “But I’ll be the proudest father there. Yes. The proudest!”
That money was safe in Mom’s name, waiting for when I’d need it. I pictured the wedding it would pay for… nothing grand, just folk who truly loved me. And good food, of course! The cake would be the crowning glory… and I’d bake it myself. Oh, I dreamed of that day so much.
When my boyfriend Marco asked me to marry him last month in our small kitchen while I made his favorite lasagna, I thought of Dad’s words.
Marco knelt right there between the stove and fridge, pasta sauce stains on his shirt, tears in his eyes.
“You’re everything I never knew I needed,” he said.
I said yes before he finished the question.
Mom’s response to our betrothal felt like a sharp blow. She barely glanced up from her magazine when I showed her the ring.
“Well, I suppose someone had to say yes at last!” she said with a shrug. “Though I can’t imagine what he’s thinking.”
I thought she was just stunned, maybe afraid of losing me. So I gave her space and time.
Two weeks later, she called about Sunday dinner at Aunt Hilda’s. She said all the family would be there, including my cousin Elise.
I’d watched folk fawn over Elise growing up… and honestly, I understood why. She looked like she’d stepped out of a fashion book, tall, fair-skinned, and confident, lighting every room she walked into. At 23, she already had the easy grace I’d spent years trying to fake.
But Elise was kind under her beauty. While other kin made sly digs at my weight or my “phase” of wanting to direct plays and films, Elise listened. She asked about my dreams and remembered my auditions better than Mom ever did.
So, at dinner, all started as usual. Aunt Hilda’s pot roast, Uncle Mark’s bad jokes, Grandma Rose grumbling about her aches. I’d just told everyone about Marco’s proposal when Mom stood and tapped her glass with a fork.
“I have news,” she said, and my heart jumped.
Finally, she’d cheer my engagement. Finally, say something good about me. I thought.
The table went quiet. Even the children stopped fidgeting. Butterflies fluttered in my belly.
Mom smiled wide as she looked right at Elise. “I’ve decided to give Casey’s wedding fund to Elise. She’s a fair girl with real hope of finding someone special. Seems the wise choice.”
It felt like a grave opened inside me. My fork slipped and hit the plate, the sound loud in the hush.
“Mom… I’m engaged. I’m getting married.”
She turned to me with pure scorn. “Oh, please, Casey! Let’s not pretend this is real. You’re not bride material. Look at yourself! You can barely wear your own clothes. Elise actually has a chance of finding a good and kind man.”
I was crushed. Every face blurred but Mom’s, sharp and cold like winter ice. I felt bare and raw, like she’d stripped me naked in front of all. It hurt deeply.
Uncle Mark cleared his throat awkwardly. Aunt Hilda focused on her mashed potatoes. Grandma Rose stared at her hands. No one spoke. No one but Elise.
She stood so fast her chair scraped the floor, the noise cutting through the stillness like a blade.
“I’m NOT taking it!”
Every head turned to her, including Mom’s.
“You’re breaking your own child, Aunt Janet. I’ve seen it for years, and I won’t keep silent.”
“Elise, dear—”
“No. You don’t get to call me ‘dear’ after what you’ve done. You know the difference between Casey and me? My mother built me up every day. She told me I was smart, gifted, and fair—not for looks, but for who I was. You spent years tearing Casey down, why? Because you’re jealous? Afraid of your own child?”
Her words hung thick like smoke. Mom went pale, then red.
“That’s nonsense—”
“Is it, Aunt Janet? Because it seems you can’t bear that your child is brave and bright and full of heart. She makes great films, cooks like a dream, is kind and true… but you choose to belittle her weight and say she’s not good enough.”
Elise turned to me. “Casey, you know that theater school at Riverside University you’ve feared to try because she told you you’re not worthy? You need to apply. This week. Want to know why? Because you’re… perfect. Truly perfect as you are. You don’t need anyone else’s blessing to know your worth.”
I sat frozen, shrinking in my chair under Mom’s harsh gaze. Shame fell like a heavy cloak—same as when I was a child, feeling like I took too much space.
Around the table, my kin shifted uncomfortably, but no one met my eyes. No one stood for me. The silence grew until it choked.
Elise grabbed her bag from her chair. “I’m leaving. Casey? Call me later. We need to talk.”
She left, and we stayed in the ruins of what was once a normal family meal.
Mom turned to me, cracking. “Well, I hope you’re happy now. You’ve turned your cousin against us.”
Something inside me broke. “I didn’t turn anyone. You showed everyone who you are.”
I stood, legs shaking but firm. “That money was Dad’s gift to me. Not yours to give away just because you think I’m not worth it.”
“Casey—”
“I’m done, Mom. Done letting you make me small. Done pretending your cruelty is normal. And done letting you tell me I don’t deserve good things.”
I left without looking back, hands shaking as I fumbled for my keys.
That night, I called Elise. We cried from anger and relief, and a feeling like hope.
“I’ve wanted to say that for years,” she said. “But thought it wasn’t my place.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. “No one’s ever stood up for me like that.”
“Well, get used to it. You’re stuck with me now.”
We talked until dawn. By then, I had a plan.
The next Monday, I sent my application to Riverside University’s theater school. The Monday after, I found part-time work at a nearby film shop.
I put the wedding off… not because I didn’t want to marry Marco, but because I wanted to marry him as the true me, not the smaller version Mom made me believe.
Marco never questioned or made me feel bad. “I fell for your dreams, too,” he said. “I want to see what happens when you stop hiding them.”
Three months later, I got the acceptance letter. I cried reading it, hearing Dad’s voice: “I’ll be the proudest father there.”
I studied hard, worked harder, acted in every show I could. For the first time, I felt like I was living, not just getting by.
Marco and I married last fall in a small ceremony at his parents’ home. Their yard was bright with lights and homemade trims, full of people who truly cheered for us. Marco’s parents paid for it all, no strings attached.