I never liked to gossip, but some things just stick in your craw. My daughter Claire spent two whole years planning her wedding. She saved every penny from her job at the insurance office, making the centerpieces by hand and hanging fairy lights around the old Spokane VFW hall.

It looked beautiful, like something out of a magazine, even if it was just a local hall.

But David’s mother, Barbara, had a look on her face the entire evening like she’d stepped in something sour. She never liked Claire. To Barbara, her son David was a king because he owned a small contracting business and drove a nice truck. She always made these little comments about Claire’s family, about how we were simple folks. I ignored it for Claire’s sake, but my blood was boiling.

During the dinner, Barbara walked right up and grabbed the microphone. David gave her a big, sweet smile, thinking she was going to say something nice. Instead, she stood there in her expensive gold dress and tapped the glass.

She started talking about all the other girls David used to date. She actually named them. “Jennifer, if you had been just a little more patient, this could have been your day,” she said. Then she looked right at my Claire, whose face had gone completely white. “To David, and to making do.”

The whole room went dead silent. You could have heard a pin drop on that wooden floor.

I was ready to jump up and tear a strip off her, but David was faster. He walked right over, took the microphone out of his mother’s hands, and looked her dead in the eye. He didn’t even yell.

“Mom, the car is waiting outside,” David said, his voice shaking just a little. “I think you should go.”

Barbara tried to laugh it off, but David just held up his hand. “No. You just insulted my wife at our wedding. Do not call me until you are ready to apologize.”

She stood there for what felt like an eternity. Finally, she grabbed her purse, marched out of the hall, and left her card on the gift table.

Later on, after the dancing was over, I found the envelope she left. It wasn’t a congratulations card. Inside was a return receipt for a wedding dress Barbara had bought for herself, along with a little handwritten note: “You will need this to look good for the divorce.”

I didn’t show Claire the note that night. I just tucked it into my purse and watched Barbara’s taillights disappear down the gravel driveway. My daughter was crying, but she was holding David’s hand, and he was looking at her like she was the only woman in the world. I knew right then that Barbara had already lost her son forever.