Westway
In all seriousness. Let’s imagine your daughter finds a great guy and they are so compatible and so much in love that they decide to marry.
We could even imagine you are so well off that you foot the complete bill. We could even imagine it’s one of those extravagant, every bridesmaid gets a present and the guys wear Armani suits and we have a trial dinner with exotic food and a celebrity-baker cake with gold-dust, sound-check 20 bands and get a former one-hit wonder to preform, a selection of French champagne and an open bar with 33 brands of selective single-malt whiskeys… One of those overblown how-I-hate-them extravaganzas.
Or we could imagine your daughter and her husband invite a select few friends to the ceremony and then have a reasonably priced feast.
Either way. The day is about THEM.
It’s not about us. It’s not about you. It’s not about the witch that was once your wife, or the ogre she calls the same label she called you once: husband.
For my kids I could share a table with Pol Pot, Noriega, Marcos, Hitler and Stalin and still smile.
I might ask that the new in-laws sit between, but I would make sure the day is about them.
Heck… I might even take the new son-in-law aside and teach him some new rules if HE didn’t make the day about HER.
But then – how you feel now and how you feel xxx years from now…
"If, therefore, any be unhappy, let him remember that he is unhappy by reason of himself alone." Epictetus
