**Diary Entry – 12th June, 2024**
My husband, Edward, and I have been preparing for our daughter Emilia’s wedding. She’s 27 now—high time she settled down, especially since she’s met a decent chap, Oliver. He’s serious, works as an engineer, treats Emilia with care, and we took to him straight away. Everything was moving smoothly—dates, dresses, guest lists. But when I found out what Oliver’s mother, Margaret, had “contributed” for her son, I nearly lost my tongue. Are we back in the Middle Ages, where dowries decide who’s worthy of whom?
Emilia’s a bright girl. University-educated, works in marketing, supports herself. Edward and I raised her to be independent, never to rely solely on a husband. Still, as parents, we wanted to give the young couple a head start. We decided to gift them money for a house deposit so they could get a mortgage. I’d also been quietly assembling Emilia’s “trousseau”—fine bedsheets, a dinner set, even new curtains to make their nest cosy. Small things, but tokens of our care. Oliver, too, had savings and insisted on contributing equally—no debts between them.
Last week, Edward and I visited Margaret to discuss the wedding. She’s a formidable woman, always immaculately coiffed, speaking as if she’s the final authority. Over tea, she dropped the bomb: “Eleanor, what are you giving Emilia as her dowry? Tradition holds that a bride should enter her new family well-provided.” At first, I thought she was joking. A dowry? Are we carting over cows and chests of gold? But Margaret was dead serious. Then came the kicker: “I’ve given Oliver a brand-new car, fully paid, and half the cost of their flat. What are you offering?”
I nearly spilled my tea. A car? Half a flat? Was she itemising her son like a bill? I kept my cool, smiled, and said we’d help as we could—but inside, I was fuming. Edward and I aren’t millionaires, but we’ve done our best for Emilia. Now it seemed our efforts were “trinkets,” while Margaret had raised a prince we were meant to shower with gifts.
Back home, I told Emilia. She just laughed: “Mum, who cares what they give? Oliver and I will manage.” But it stung. Not for me—for her. She’s kind, clever, and now she’s being weighed on some outdated scale. Edward, ever the peacemaker, shrugged it off: “Eleanor, let it go. The kids love each other.” Easy for him. Why should we justify ourselves to Margaret? Where does she get off treating Oliver like stock at auction?
Days later, Emilia mentioned Oliver was just as annoyed. “The car and money are nice,” he’d said, “but I’m marrying Emilia, not her dowry.” That thawed me a bit—the lad’s got sense. But Margaret wouldn’t quit. She rang yesterday, probing about Emilia’s dress, our guest count, and whether we’d “top up” the dowry. I bit my tongue hard.
Now I’m left wondering: how to handle this? I don’t want to sour things before the wedding. But her tone—like we owe her—grates. Edward and I worked our whole lives to raise Emilia, give her an education, values, love. Isn’t that worth more than cars and flats? We started in a rented room and built our life—why is this suddenly a bidding war?
Emilia, bless her, plays peacekeeper. “Mum, don’t fret. Oliver and I will sort it. We’ll take a loan if needed.” But I see her discomfort. She just wants joy, not squabbles. I’ve resolved to ignore Margaret’s jabs. We’ll give what we promised and celebrate. If she wants to measure wallets, let her.
Still, it leaves a bitter taste. A wedding should be about love, not ledger books. I trust Emilia and Oliver will be fine—they’re strong, they’re in love. As for dowries? Margaret can keep her cars. Emilia’s real dowry is her heart, her wit, her kindness. And that’s worth more than gold.
**Lesson learnt**: Love doesn’t come with a price tag, and old customs weigh lighter than character. Let the ledger-keepers tally their sums; true wealth isn’t counted in pounds.
