Giulia kept hold of my hand a second longer than necessary, like she needed something solid to confirm what she’d just heard was real. Her expression barely shifted—she was too disciplined for that—but her eyes hardened slightly, the subtle snap of a lock turning in place.

Matteo cleared his throat. “Sofia—” he started, my name in Italian slipping out instinctively.

I gently withdrew my hand. “We should go,” I replied in Italian, my tone steady. Then, switching to English, I added, “It’s late.”

His jaw tightened. “Can we talk outside?”

Out in the driveway, the air was sharp and cold. Matteo stood beside his car, hands braced on his hips, staring down at the pavement as if it might offer an explanation.

“You… you understood everything?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Every word.”

Color rose to his face. “It was a joke. My mom says stupid things. You know what she’s like.”

I let the silence stretch for a moment. “I heard her say I wasn’t ‘your level.’ And I heard you laugh.”

He parted his lips, then shut them again. “I didn’t mean—”

“What did you mean?” I asked evenly. My calm seemed to frustrate him more than anger would have. “Because it sounded like agreement.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “It’s complicated. She’s intense. If I challenge her, she makes everything miserable. I was just trying to keep the peace before the wedding.”
“The peace for who?”

He looked up, almost offended. “For everyone.”

I nodded. “That’s the issue, Matteo. ‘Everyone’ didn’t include me.”

The drive back felt unfamiliar, like we’d stepped into a room neither of us had seen before. At my apartment, he lingered in the doorway as though unsure whether he belonged inside.
“Sofia,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow is huge. Don’t let my mom’s mouth ruin it.”

I placed my keys down with care. “Your mother’s words didn’t ruin it,” I replied. “Your reaction did.”

He blinked.

“I can handle someone who dislikes me,” I continued. “I can’t handle a partner who laughs at cruelty and expects me to swallow it so things stay ‘easy.’”

“You’re blowing this out of proportion,” he said.

I studied him—the way he minimized my hurt, the way he wanted my patience without offering courage in return.

“Then it should be simple to fix,” I said softly.

“Fix what?”

“Tomorrow, if your mother says anything about me being beneath your family, you correct her immediately. In front of everyone. Not later. Not privately. Right then.”

He stared at me as if I’d asked him to self-destruct. “In front of people?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t understand her.”

A faint smile almost touched my lips. “I understand Italian, Matteo. I understand her perfectly.”

He paced once. “If I do that, she’ll explode. She’ll ruin the wedding.”

“She’ll try,” I said. “And you’ll either stop her or you won’t. That’s what tomorrow is really about.”

“You’re giving me an ultimatum.”

“I’m giving you an opportunity—to be my husband, not your mother’s assistant.”

He fell silent, then said carefully, “I’ll speak to her privately in the morning.”

That was when my stomach dropped—not because he refused, but because he still didn’t see it.

“I’m staying at my maid of honor’s tonight,” I said, heading to pack a small bag.

“Sofia, come on.”

“I need space. And if you wake up tomorrow thinking I’m wrong for refusing to smile through disrespect… don’t come to the altar.”

When I shut the door, my hands trembled—not from fear, but from grief.

The decision was already taking shape, like the scent of rain before a storm.

I barely slept at Mia’s. She didn’t interrogate me—she made tea, draped a blanket over my legs, and sat beside me while I stared at nothing, replaying the laughter from Giulia’s table.

By morning, my phone buzzed endlessly: confirmations from vendors, questions from family, texts from Matteo—We need to talk. Please answer. I’m coming over.

At noon, Mia opened the door to find him standing there in rumpled clothes, holding his garment bag like armor.

“Five minutes,” he asked.

Mia glanced at me. I nodded.

He rushed inside, words tumbling over one another. “I spoke to my mom. I told her she crossed a line. She said you misunderstood. That it was ‘family humor.’ That you embarrassed her by showing off.”

“Did you tell her you laughed?” I asked.

He hesitated. “I said we shouldn’t have—”

“Did you apologize?”

“I’m here,” he snapped. “Can we not do this today?”

“What did she say about me not being ‘your level’?”

“She said she worries about cultural differences. Expectations.”

“And you?”

“I told her to be nice.”

A tight ache formed in my chest. “Telling her to ‘be nice’ isn’t defending me. It’s managing her.”

“You want me to choose between my mother and my wife.”

“I want you to choose us when someone humiliates us,” I said. “Even if it’s her.”

The silence that followed said everything.

“So what now?” Mia asked.

“Sofia, please,” Matteo said, desperation creeping in. “We love each other. Don’t end everything over one stupid dinner.”

“One dinner?” My voice broke. “It wasn’t one dinner. It was you laughing. It was you prioritizing her comfort over my dignity. And it’s you still acting like I’m unreasonable for wanting respect.”

“I can change.”

“Not in time for this,” I answered gently.

I stood. My hands were steady now. “I won’t marry a man who’s already married to his mother’s approval.”

His face crumpled. “Sofia…”

I walked him to the door. “Last night, in Italian, she tested me. And you laughed like you were on her side. If I marry you today, that’s the role I accept forever—the outsider everyone mocks as long as I keep smiling.”

“I didn’t think you’d leave.”

“That’s the problem,” I said. “You didn’t think you needed to be better.”

After he left, I began canceling everything—the venue, the officiant, my parents. Each call felt like loosening something wound tight around my chest. There were tears, arguments, pleas. I stayed calm.

That afternoon, my wedding dress remained untouched in its garment bag while I pulled on jeans and a sweater and stepped outside. The city moved around me as usual—traffic, steam rising from grates, strangers carrying burdens I’d never know.

My phone buzzed once more. A message from Giulia:

Mi dispiace se ti sei offesa. Matteo è un bravo ragazzo. Non fare una scenata.

I’m sorry if you were offended. Matteo is a good boy. Don’t make a scene.

I stared at the screen, then typed back in Italian:

La scena l’hai fatta tu. Io sto solo chiudendo il sipario.

You created the scene. I’m just closing the curtain.

And for the first time in days, I could breathe fully.