A Perfect Wedding
The door bangs, the house trembles, I hold my breath, Bridezilla is home. My son coined the phrase and normally I try to minimise teasing between my children (a lifetime’s habit, a lifetime’s work) but frankly I agree with him. A bloodcurdling scream causes me to dash to the hall, where I find her literally pulling at her hair and stamping her feet, like a toddler.
She kicks an enormous box towards me. It’s almost comical, except she’s my baby, my 27-year-old baby, but my baby still; I fold her into my arms.
“Hush. Harriet, please.” I ease her tight fists from her hair and walk her towards the sitting room.
“The dress! My dress!” She’s livid; every pore on her face is tight with tension and fury. I’m almost afraid. Where has my
