Then one one morning, as my mum began her daily rituals, she was involved in a road traffic accident that severely damaged her leg. The doctors weren’t sure she’d ever walk again.
She was in hospital for six weeks. She had multiple skin grafts, reconstructive plastic surgery, and a partial amputation.
At the same time, we had a wedding to go to. I didn’t want to go — it was a family friend of my in-laws. I knew it would take more effort telling them I was maxed out than just sucking it up. I was exhausted. Most of my days in the lead-up had been spent at the hospital, working from there, or on the phone chasing the Met Police for updates, waiting for the case to be passed to the CPS. All with the usual background noise of work and children.
Basically, it was all a bit shit.
But my husband insisted I go. I tried to sort my outfit the day before. Anyone who’s ever had to prep for an Indian wedding knows — it is not for the faint-hearted. Getting Indian clothes ready is a pain in the arse. Mine are all stuffed into two large suitcases, with no fucking order, no matching tops, trousers, or dupattas. They’re packed like I was fleeing a revolution. Everything needed ironing. And then there’s the anxiety of trying stuff on to see if it still fits — oh, and sniffing the pits.
Some people worry about fashion. Not me. My priorities are:
- What complete outfit can I find?
- Does it have a nala?
- Does it fit/can I make it fit?
- How much ironing does it need?
(A sari is a head fuck.)
I didn’t have time to organise an outfit for my daughter, so I asked my husband to sort it. I told him where all her Indian clothes were and reminded him to run it past her — I didn’t want a tantrum the next morning. My daughter is obsessed with clothes, but she cannot handle labels, bobbly bits, or anything scratchy. This does not bode well for traditional Indian outfits.
I got back from the hospital after 10pm. No time to iron anything. No time to check the outfit.
In the morning, I started ironing my outfit while my husband hovered, rushing me. I asked to see what our daughter was wearing. There were two outfits: one for the morning religious ceremony and one for the party. The morning one was fine. The evening one? An orange dress with a white Peter Pan collar with yellow spots — paired with navy blue leggings with pink spots.
Her outfit was cute in a middle-class picnic way, not a South Asian wedding party. I knew his mum would kick off. As calmly as I could, I said to my husband:
“If your mother says anything about the evening outfit, you step in. You tell her she’s seven.”
He muttered, “Why would my mum say anything? She’s not like that.”
I couldn’t find a nala, so I grabbed another outfit. At which point, my husband lost his shit — shouting that we were going to be late, that his mum and sister would already be there.
It was too much. I burst into tears.
He didn’t stop.
The children watched.
So, ten minutes later than planned, we were in the car. In silence.
I had already negotiated my presence: I would only be available for the religious part of the wedding. I wanted to go back to the hospital in the afternoon, so I wouldn’t be able to attend the party. Most importantly, I wanted to protect my daughter from my MIL the fashion police.
We struggled to find the venue. Parking was a nightmare. We finally parked.
Then, like the good obedient Indian boy he is, my husband phoned his mum.
They were running late. Very late.
My MIL and SIL live five minutes up the road. No children to get ready. Just themselves.
No apology to me for the shouting. For the upset. For the silence in the car.
And suddenly it hit me like a wall: I felt exhausted.
I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I didn’t want to smile or make small talk. I just wanted to lie down.
I found a quiet spot and waited it out.
Eventually, the religious bit ended, and I got ready to leave as the party started. We all walked back to the car park together.
As we reached the car, my daughter excitedly showed her grandma the dress she’d wear for the party. It was hanging on a hanger, her tights draped around the top.
That’s when I heard it.
“Is that what she’s wearing? Didn’t she have anything else? That’s not for a wedding.”
I waited.
I knew my husband had heard.
I counted to ten in my head, each count a double heartbeat.
Come on… remind your mum our daughter is seven.
He said nothing.
I wished he’d chosen to activate his selective mutism that morning instead.
So I took my daughter’s hand.
I turned her back away from her grandma.
Held the dress up and said gently,
“Do you like this outfit?”
She nodded, quietly. Clearly upset.
“Then that’s all that matters,” I said.
“You know, I don’t really like what Grandma’s wearing. But she does look comfortable. Sometimes people will share their opinions with you, and that’s fine. But it’s up to you if the opinion matters. It’s not the clothes that make the person — it’s the confidence. You rock this outfit and give it a really good outing.”
I didn’t whisper. I made sure my voice carried. My MIL was barely a metre away.
For context: six weeks earlier, I’d asked my MIL to take our daughter shopping for an outfit for this wedding. I knew her concern over appearances could potentially lead to remarks like this. This wasn’t her first rodeo. She cared very little about my son’s or her son’s attire. Her investment was always in what I was wearing and what my daughter was wearing.
Her daughter? She’d turn up in any old thing, throw an old-lady cardigan over it. That was because she was “simple.” (And in her book, simple is good — unthreatening, obedient.)
So yes, she took my daughter shopping.
They picked an outfit together and tried it on — my daughter loved it.
She didn’t buy it.
She told us the price — £50 — and the shop’s name.
My mum? She would’ve bought the outfit in a heartbeat. She would’ve been delighted to do it — especially for a wedding she was attending with her granddaughter. It would’ve made her day.
But my MIL chose not to. With all the accident stuff, I’d forgotten to follow up. And then for her to make that comment? Fuck her.
I turned to my husband and whispered,
“If she talks to my daughter like that again, her daughter becomes fair game.”
Then I hugged my kids and left for the hospital.
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