Stepmother of the Bride
By Juditha Dowd

Our 40-minute phone call draws to an end with a rehash of the wedding budget nearing its outer limits, and a much-needed venting. Why can't her sisters decide whether to wear matching hair ornaments? We're frustrated – we don't really care what they wear, we just want it settled. And, oh yes, a new wrinkle with the groom's family – a cousin's wedding is being scheduled for the same day. Will Monica change hers?

Sighs of disbelief hiss over the wires. 

Signing off, we complain about how much time all this is taking from our work. Monica lives in Ohio; I'm in New Jersey. It's our third call this week.

"Love you," I say as we hang up.

"Love ya, too," she responds. 

It hasn't always been so. When I met Monica's father, she was a junior in high school, a particularly trying year in her young life. Her parents' difficult divorce still weighed heavily on her shoulders. So did her mother's recurrent mental illness, which fueled an ongoing war between them that spilled over into her other relationships. Monica's sense of responsibility toward her two younger sisters touched me; often she seemed more mother than sibling to them. Yet she was a restless, uncomfortable girl, impatient with life. With me she maintained a polite but prickly awareness, hungry for approval, even affection, but unwilling to cut me any slack. In hindsight, I could have been more patient and much more flexible. We seldom clashed, but kept our distance. 

I married her father during her freshman year of college. Wanting to make the ceremony inclusive of our soon-to-be-combined families, we asked all five daughters to attend us. I took each one on a separate shopping trip to find a special dress for the occasion.

Did our own surpassing joy blind my husband-to-be and me to our daughters' awkward position? I think it did. Although genuinely wanting us to be happy, they couldn't help but feel ambivalent. In the wedding pictures, Monica's smile is tentative. The day after the ceremony, she returned to college.

Except for brief holiday visits, we seldom saw or even heard from her. She found an apartment and remained in Boston to work during the summers, then moved to Ohio for graduate school. 

The rest of us began to knit ourselves into a family. There were bad days, teary misunderstandings, minor crises, irritations that ripple the calm in any family but attract more notice in a blended one, where relationships must be built from scratch. Yet we seemed to meld with surprising ease.

My own two children climbed eagerly out of a difficult adolescence, finding their footing in study and work. The closeness we enjoyed in their childhood was renewed on their frequent visits home from college, and they began to count on the steady presence of their new stepfather.

His middle and youngest daughters straddled two homes for a year before deciding to live full-time with us. Affection blossomed in the natural ways that "dailyness" can nurture.  But Monica, due partly to geography and partly to her own choice, remained somewhat apart.

In truth, I was not entirely sorry. In a family of strong personalities, Monica's could tip the balance. Even on her infrequent visits Monica's behavior was challenging, like the time over the Christmas holiday when she took her younger sisters to the mall an hour before dinner and brought them home late, stuffed on fast food. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I had assumed a role previously belonging to her, a role that she hadn't chosen but played well.

Monica had been living with Barry for months when she first mentioned him in a phone call to her father. The second time we met him, they announced that they were engaged. 

"Great!" we exclaimed in unison. We barely knew him, but we hugged him in welcome.

What else could we do? We hardly knew Monica anymore either; it was their decision and we needed to support it. Monica seemed surprised, as though she half-expected that we might protest.

The couple's emerging domestic routines augured well for marital success. She always got to take her shower first, a good indicator that Barry had noticed the benefits of hot water on her morning disposition. We liked the easy murmur of conversation in their room above ours, the frequent spark of laughter. Suddenly, Monica was more comfortable and relaxed with all of us.

"Love can do that," said her father, hopefully. 

My life was changing, too. Three decades of child rearing had taken their toll, and I was more than ready to move on. With only one year of graduate school to go, I could soon quit my tedious job and begin the new career I'd been planning for years.

"Would you like me to help you with the wedding?" I volunteered.

Yes, she would. But immediately the engaged couple began to argue. Her idea was a small, informal affair at home. He wanted a much bigger deal, and he wanted to be married in August. Cast in the role of arbitrator, I tried with little success to help them sort their priorities.

In a letter Monica wrote, she began with, "Thanks for being so patient with us. . ." My heart opened as I read on.
They'd made some decisions, her letter continued; we could move ahead with planning. With less than eight months left to pull things together, Monica and I whipped into high gear.

I supported her preference for a street-length dress. We breathed a joint sigh of relief over having dealt successfully with our first milestone, "the dress."

Together we met with a caterer who worked with Monica's menu preferences. And we both loved the very special wedding cake he showed us in their book.

With Monica living in Ohio and the wedding taking place in New Jersey, she agreed that it made sense for me to handle as many details as possible. With appreciation, Monica placed her fate in my inexperienced hands, trusting that I would be faithful to the spirit of what she and Barry wanted. Soon, we started calling each other, ostensibly to discuss the wedding, but really just to chat.

There were some tense moments: during one early call we picked our way gingerly through a budget misunderstanding, then found a way to compromise.

Gradually, these decisions became a wedding. And in the process, Monica became my daughter. Tomorrow she will be married. Everything's fine, but both she and I are glad it's almost over. I've just spent two hours remaking her wedding dress just right for her.

The weather looks good for tomorrow, so the ceremony can probably be held in our little garden out back.  It's still blooming, and the cool September nights have revived the flowers' summer hues. Monica will be nervous, uncomfortable at being the center of attention. Her father will accompany her down a short path between the herb patch and row of staked tomatoes to where her groom stands with his best friend and our town mayor, who will perform the ceremony. Just a dozen or so family members beaming from the rented chairs. Later, we'll all drive over to the Art Center on the river for a larger reception.

If Monica's mother is feeling well enough to participate, I'll step into the background and make appropriate room for her on this special day in her daughter's life. But if she isn't, I'm the mother of the bride.

"It's nice of you to do all this", says an old friend. "I'm sure Jim appreciates it."

He does. But I'm not doing this for Monica's father. Monica is a remarkable young woman. I'm honored that she has allowed me to share this intimate time. 

I'm doing it because I love her.

Primarily a poet, Juditha Dowd also writes fiction and creative non-fiction. Her work has appeared in literary journals, magazines and anthologies, including The Florida Review, AARP Magazine, Earth’s Daughters and online journal Cézanne’s Carrot. Her chapbook “The Weathermancer” was recently released by Finishing Line Press. Dowd performs in the New York Metro area with a poetry ensemble, Cool Women. They’ve been invited to read in Oregon this July. With her husband James, she has five daughters and six grandchildren.

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