I always knew my stepmother would find a way to ruin my brother’s wedding. But how she went about it was extreme, even for her. What she didn’t expect was that it would be her final act.
My stepmother, Saet, had a talent for making everything about her, even if it meant torching bridges she pretended not to value. But I never thought she’d target Nana. And I never thought she’d choose the worst possible moment to do it.
I’m Eirian, 26, the eldest of two. When our mom died, I was 11, and my brother Alun was seven. It was a sudden aneurysm—one moment she was tucking us in, the next morning she was gone.
I still remember how silent the house became after that, and how quickly Nana stepped in.
Her name is Ead, but no one calls her that. To us, she’s Nana—comfort, routine, safety. She’s our late mother’s mother, who practically raised us after the funeral.
Nana packed our school lunches, sewed my prom dress, and sat through every soccer match and school play. She wasn’t just a grandmother; she was our anchor, our home.
When Dad couldn’t speak without breaking down, Nana sat on my bed’s edge and promised I’d be okay.
When Alun had night terrors, she sang softly until he slept.
Two years after Mom’s funeral, Dad remarried.
That’s how Saet entered the picture.
I was 13 and wary; Alun didn’t fully grasp it. All he knew was Dad stopped bringing flowers to Mom’s grave, and someone new sat in her chair at dinner.
Saet was never outright cruel at first. Her passive-aggressive jabs were subtle, the kind you’d expect from someone who resented competing with a memory. But it wasn’t just the dead she rivaled; she clearly despised Nana.
She’d roll her eyes when Nana visited, muttering remarks like, “Should we dust Nana off before dinner?” or “That old lady perfume again—Miss mothballs and gloom?”
As kids, we’d laugh it off, but it grated as we grew older. Especially since Dad never spoke up. He’d just sigh and switch topics.
I once asked, “Why don’t you say something when she mocks Nana?” He looked exhausted, not angry.
“She’s not your mother,” he said. “She’s trying. That’s more than most would do.”
But she wasn’t trying. Not at all.
She never packed a lunch, helped with homework, or showed up to a game or recital. When I had a fever, Nana brought soup and held my hand. When Alun was heartbroken after a high school breakup, Nana bought him ice cream and listened.
Saet, whose digs at Nana we learned to ignore, was a presence in the house but never part of it.
When Alun got engaged to Dafyd, he came to me the night after proposing and said, “Only two people are giving toasts at the wedding. You and Nana.”
I blinked. “Not Dad?”
He shook his head. “I love him, but he lets too much slide. And Saet?” He grimaced. “She’s not family. She’s just Dad’s wife.”
I didn’t argue. I felt the same.
Saet never mothered us, never tried. The thought of her using the wedding to act like we were her kids turned my stomach.
I helped plan the wedding, mostly because Dafyd was sweet but overwhelmed. Nana offered to pay for Alun’s tuxedo and gave Dafyd a stunning set of pearls as a wedding gift. Dafyd teared up when she opened it.
“This is something my mom would’ve done,” Dafyd whispered, emotional. “Thank you.”
I saw Saet watching from the corner, lips tight, arms crossed, and I knew trouble was brewing.
But I never imagined it would be what happened.
On Alun’s wedding day, everything was perfect.
The weather was sunny, not too warm, like a page from a bridal magazine. Fairy lights, white roses, a string quartet—Alun in navy, Dafyd glowing.
My toast came after dinner. I shared stories about growing up with Alun—his odd frog obsession at eight, how he tried selling “lucky stones” to neighbors. People laughed; some cried.
I glanced at Nana, who dabbed her eyes with a napkin.
Then the DJ called for the final toast, post-cake cutting—Nana’s.
She stood slowly, a bit unsteady but proud, clutching a tiny notebook with her speech. Her lips moved, rehearsing the first line. The room hushed.
That’s when Saet, two tables away, wine glass gripped in her manicured hand, threw her head back and laughed loudly.
“Oh wow, who let the janitor in early?” she said, voice piercing. “Sorry, Nana, your cleanup shift isn’t until after dinner.”
The hall froze.
Nana blinked, still standing, slowly lowering her glass.
Saet snorted. “I’m KIDDING! Gosh, you people are so sensitive!”
She’d gone too far.
I stood halfway, heart pounding so loud I couldn’t think. I looked at Alun, who was motionless, jaw clenched, eyes blazing.
He stood abruptly and marched to the DJ booth before I could move.
“Mic,” he said, reaching out.
The DJ hesitated but handed it over.
Alun didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
“I wasn’t going to say anything. But enough is enough.”
Everyone turned to him.
He pointed at Nana. “This woman raised me. Raised both of us. She held our family together when it was falling apart. When Mom died, she was there every day—every game, every spelling bee, every scraped knee.”
“She cooked, cleaned, held us when we cried, told stories when we couldn’t sleep. She didn’t have to, but she did.”
Then he turned to Saet.
“And you. You’ve done nothing but try to erase her. You think a cruel joke will make people forget what she’s done? What she means to us?”
Saet opened her mouth, but Alun didn’t pause.
“You know why I didn’t ask you to speak today? Because I didn’t want fake love. I wanted someone who showed up. Someone who knows what cereal I like. Who remembers Mom’s lullabies. Who sat through three hours of me practicing the recorder. Who spent her pension on my soccer kit. Who drove through a snowstorm for soup and cough drops when I had the flu.”
Saet’s face twisted—embarrassment, rage, I couldn’t tell. Her knuckles were white around the wine glass.
Alun walked to Nana, offered his arm to steady her, and said softly, “Nana, my second mom, please say what you came to say.”
Nana stood taller, took the mic, and faced Saet.
“Don’t worry, dear. I’ll keep it short, since I’m ‘on the clock.’”
The room burst into surprised laughter. I nearly choked. Nana never clapped back—she’d always taken insults quietly and walked away. But tonight, she stood firm.
She turned to Alun and smiled.
“Alun, sweetheart. When your mama gave birth to you, she said you were the second-best thing that ever happened to her. If she were here, she’d be crying happy tears today, seeing you with this beautiful girl by your side.” She looked at Dafyd, tears streaming down her face.
“I’m so honored to speak in her place.”
She raised her glass.
“To Alun and Dafyd. May your love be louder than cruelty, stronger than pride, and softer than regret.”
Everyone stood, applause echoing. Even the quartet clapped.
Saet? She muttered something to Dad, then stormed out, heels clicking furiously on the marble floor. Within 10 minutes, she was in the parking lot, fumbling with her keys.
I heard later she tried complaining to Dad, demanding he “do something.”
He looked her in the eye and said, “You brought this on yourself.”
She didn’t return and left before dessert.
When the DJ played a slow song for the mother-son dance, Alun turned to Nana and said, “Dance with me?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
They swayed slowly, Alun whispering something that made her smile through tears.
Not a single eye in the room was dry.
For the first time in a long time, I felt Mom was there too. Smiling. Proud.
Just like us.