My name is Christina and the day I was supposed to get married, was the day I realized what faith really meant.
Not in God. But in myself.
Most people in our town call her Mother Eloise. She’s a devout woman, a generous donor, a graceful voice in the choir, and of course, a revered church elder.
To everyone else, she was a saint.
To me, she was my fiancé’s mother, and someone who had always treated me with a chilling kind of politeness that never quite reached her eyes. She hugged with her arms, never with her heart.
I know that sounds strange but it was something my grandmother always told me.
“You’ll know how good a person is by their hugs, Christina. A good person hugs with their entire heart.”
When Marcus proposed to me at family dinner in his mother’s garden, she smiled. She clapped and I think she even cried a little.
“I want nothing but joy for my son,” she told me afterward. “And for you, my dear.”
Look, against my better judgment, I believed her.
And that was my first mistake.
Planning the wedding was mostly smooth. Marcus and I agreed on everything from the start. We were on the same page for the colors, the food, even our wedding playlist, minus one song that he simply had to play for his groomsmen.
But when it came to the church, he hesitated.
“I just don’t want to owe her,” he said once while we were testing cake samples.
“Your mom offered, honey,” I said. “Let’s just take it. It’ll be the one thing she gets a say in. I already told her that petunias weren’t going to make the cut for the wedding.”
Marcus smiled and took a sip of coffee that the bakery had offered us.
Eloise had recommended the officiant, Pastor James, a soft-spoken man with a voice like molasses. He had kind eyes, tired ones but he’d always made me feel seen.
My fiancé agreed, reluctantly. I didn’t blame him. Every part of Eloise’s kindness felt… conditional.
Things changed slowly. Subtly.
It started with small questions one evening when Eloise came over for dinner. She sat at the kitchen table with a notebook and watched as I made a chicken and chickpea curry.
“Were you baptized as a child, Christina?”
“Which church did your family go to?”
“Do you think that a pure white dress is appropriate, considering your past, you know?”
That one hit harder than the rest.
I laughed it off. I tried to convince myself she didn’t mean it like that.
But then she said, “Have you really repented for everything?”
That word, everything, hung in the air like smoke from a fire I didn’t know was burning. I didn’t say anything. I just cut more chillies to add to the curry.
Eloise hated spicy food.
On the morning of the wedding, I arrived at the church early with Camille, my maid of honor and best friend since sixth grade. We wanted a quiet moment before the chaos began.
There were no cameras. No snobby cousins. No makeup artists or hairstylists. No caterers running toward me to taste and approve appetizers.
It was just silence, deep breathing, and a moment of peace.
The building was still. Golden light filtered through stained glass windows, scattering fragments of color across the polished floors. Somewhere in the distance, the choir was warming up, soft, aimless notes drifting through the air like prayers waiting to land.
We took a shortcut through the back hallway to the bridal room, our heels clicking lightly against the old stone. As we passed Pastor James’s office, I heard voices.
I stopped short.
One of them was hers. Mother Eloise.
“She’s not fit to marry my son, Pastor!” Eloise hissed. “Christina is not pure. She’s… tainted. I can’t believe she’s wearing a white dress. The audacity…”
“Look, Eloise, maybe you should have a conversation with our bridal couple. Let them know your… concerns or grievances.”
“It’s not about my grievances, Pastor James,” she said. “There’s been talk, you know. Photographs… of her and that boy she lived with in college. And Marcus? He deserves better. My son deserves a God-fearing woman who knows how to carry herself.”
My stomach turned.
“I don’t think it’s my place…” Pastor James began.
“I’ll double the donation. Twenty thousand dollars. For the roof… and whatever else you need.”
There was a pause.
“Call it off, Pastor. Say that you had a revelation. Say God spoke to you. Maybe if you sit quietly enough and think about what I’ve just confessed, He will.”
Camille’s hand shot out to catch my elbow. My knees were close to giving in.
“Christina,” she whispered.
But I was already walking away. My eyes were burning. I moved away from the door, away from the voice that had just gutted me. Away from the woman I was supposed to call family.
My whole body buzzed like I’d been struck. And deep down, something sharp began to wake.
Two months before the wedding, I got an envelope in the mail. There was no return address, no letter, just a photo inside.
A younger Eloise, maybe in her early 20s, perched on a barstool in a dive. Her legs draped over a man who wasn’t her husband. A cigarette in one hand, a drink in the other. Her blouse gaped open, revealing more than modesty would allow.
On the back of the photo were two sentences:
“Everyone has a past. Even Mother Eloise.”
At the time, I thought it was a cruel joke. Some ex-member of the congregation with a grudge. I shoved it in a drawer, vowing not to say anything to Marcus. Despite their complicated relationship, he didn’t need to question his mother or her past.
But that morning, as I zipped up my wedding bag before leaving for the church, I saw the envelope again. I was looking for my something blue, a pair of sapphire earrings, when I saw it. I hesitated, picking up the velvet box.
Then I slipped it in. I didn’t know why. Maybe a part of me already knew something wasn’t right.
And after hearing her try to buy my wedding’s destruction, I knew exactly why I’d kept it.
Camille followed me into the dressing room. I showed her the photo.
“That’s her,” Camille said, her eyes wide.
“The holiest woman in the county, huh?”
“How did you get this?” she asked, sitting down.
I told her about the mysterious delivery and how there was no letter or return address.
“So, what are you going to do about it?”
I looked in the mirror, my veil still clutched in my hand. My reflection looked pale, but my eyes… my eyes were clear and sharp.
“I’m going to get married, Camille.”
The church was packed. Every single pew was filled. Candles flickered down the aisle and on little tables in the corners. The choir hummed beautifully. The smell of lilies drifted in the air like ghosts.
Marcus stood at the altar, handsome in his suit, nervously adjusting his cufflinks.
Eloise sat in the front pew, spine straight, lips tight. Serene as ever.
Pastor James caught my eye. There was something apologetic in his expression, something unsure. But he gave a small nod.
He hadn’t taken the bribe.
Yet.
As the music began, I walked down the aisle, veil in place, every step deliberate. People smiled. Some cried. I didn’t smile back. I saved all my strength for what came next.
When Pastor James reached the part in the ceremony where he asked if anyone objected to the union, I raised my hand.
Gasps rippled through the sanctuary like wind through dry leaves.
“Christina?” Marcus gasped. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
“I’m so sorry,” I said softly before turning around. “I just want to say something. To all of you.”
I turned to face the congregation.
“Many of you know my future mother-in-law, Elder Eloise. Or Mother Eloise as you like to call her. She’s a woman of faith. A generous soul. A pillar of this church. Right?”
People nodded. One woman clutched her pearls.
“But this morning, she tried to stop this wedding. She said I wasn’t worthy of her son. She offered the church $20,000 to end this ceremony.”
The silence became something solid. Like a wall.
Eloise stood.
“That’s a lie, Christina! How dare you? In the house of God?!”
I pulled the photo from my bouquet.
“I don’t believe in shame, Eloise,” I said. “I believe everyone has a past. But I also believe in honesty. If I’m unworthy because I lived with someone in college, then I suppose this photo makes you unworthy too.”
Camille walked to the front and slipped the image into the AV booth. It flashed across the church monitor for all to see.
A collective inhale echoed around us.
My almost mother-in-law stared at the screen, her face going slack. Then red. Then her hands shook.
“Where did you get that?” she whispered.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “What matters is you tried to destroy my wedding. You tried to humiliate me. But I won’t be shamed for living a life you pretended to rise above.”
Marcus stepped toward his mother, disbelief all over his face.
“You did this?” he asked.
His voice wasn’t angry. It was quieter than I expected, like he was still waiting for her to say no. To laugh. To deny it. To give him anything but the truth he already knew.
“I was protecting you,” Eloise said.
“From who? The woman I love? The woman you don’t even know? The woman you have never tried to get along with?”
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her hands twitched at her sides, like she wanted to reach for something, maybe her son, maybe her dignity, but there was nothing left to hold.
“You’re done interfering,” he said, and there was no heat in it. Just certainty. Just a clean break.
“Pastor, please continue,” Marcus said.
The pastor hesitated, shifting from foot to foot but then opened his book again with trembling fingers.
Camille reached for my hand and gave it a small squeeze, nothing performative. Just there. Steady and solid.
And just like that, the wedding went on.
My vows came out too quickly. Marcus’s voice cracked, but we didn’t falter.
I think we were both mourning something in that moment, not each other, but the version of family we thought we’d have.
When we kissed, I saw Eloise still in the front pew, frozen, furious, and for the first time, entirely alone.
That night, as the last of the guests left, Marcus and I sat on the steps outside the reception hall, our fingers laced. I still had rice in my hair, Marcus had petals jutting out of his collar.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I knew she was controlling, but I didn’t think she’d go that far.”
I leaned my head on his shoulder.
“You stood by me while I reclaimed my role, Marcus. Thank you.”
“You were incredible up there,” he kissed my temple. “I’ve seen so many people tremble at the sight of my mother, including my college girlfriend. You showed her that you’re not afraid of her.”
I knew that. Marcus had told me about it before.
“You know she scared off someone before,” Marcus once told me, years ago. “But this feels different.”
I smiled.
Earlier, while everyone was busy dancing or sipping champagne or eating their way through our buffet, I’d walked to the front pew where Eloise had sat, still red-faced and silent.
I left the photo envelope there, tucked neatly inside the pages of her hymnal. No note, just the truth as clear as the photo.
She stepped down as a church elder a week later.
“Due to health reasons, unfortunately,” they said.
Now, we see her only on holidays. She barely looks at me and I don’t mind. I look her in the eye when I greet her.
I stand taller these days. Purity isn’t the absence of sin. It’s the courage to tell the truth anyway. And who was Mother Eloise to measure mine?