My Mother and the Wedding

Dressed in a pure white veil and gown, I am holding my father's right arm and my mother's left hand.

Not flowers in both hands, but parents in both hands. At this point, something is strange about this wedding.Usually, one walks with their father, right?

“The bride is entering.”

The heavy doors creak and open quietly. At that moment, thunderous applause fills the venue. The smoke illuminated by the spotlight turns into particles of mist, dazzlingly enveloping me in my wedding dress.

As I take a step into the ceremony hall, my father gently lets go of my arm and steps back. Even though he is always lounging sluggishly in front of the TV at home, today of all days, his movements are remarkably sharp and fluid.

Come to think of it, my father was the captain of the basketball team in high school, was fast on his feet, and always came in first in marathons. I have heard about such “past glories” from him hundreds of times. Even when I didn't ask.

Back then, I would brush it off with a single “So?” But as expected of a former basketball team captain, on the big day of sending his daughter off to her groom, my father showed no signs of nervousness and retreated with a breezy, dashing air.

My father has little presence at home, but that bland, odorless personality worked in his favor on the big stage. He didn't try to stand out awkwardly, didn't push himself forward, and his movements had no quirks. He didn't get in the way of his wife and daughter's big moment, and his exit was professional. I only had the image of him always watching TV or talking about his past heroic tales, but I retract that. Thank you, Dad.

Now, from here on, it is not my moment or my father's, but my mother's time to shine. My mother, who was wearing a black tomesode kimono, looked more poised than usual. As if to take his place, the clear voice of a staff member rings out.

“Now, Mother, please perform the veil-up.”

Yes,in our family's wedding, it is not the husband but the “mother” who performs the veil-up first.

I was 37 at the time of my wedding. My mother is not good at inviting people. That is why it is always me who says, “Let's go shopping” or “Let's go to the public bath.” I am aware that I have a mother complex. That said, my mother is someone who is not good at being in front of people. And I, even in my late 30s, do not intend to go out of my way to pull a “I love Mom” move in front of others. Then why did this irregular production come about?

Let's turn back time, just a little.

***

During the wedding meeting, a staff member asked, “Would your mother like to come to a meeting once?”

“She's not that kind of person. She definitely won't come.”

I blurted out a blunt denial. The staff member frowned, looking troubled. It was a hassle to explain in detail, so I dismissed it by saying she was “that kind of person,” but when I reported to my mother that I was going to have a wedding, she had already laid down the law.

“I won't go to meetings or anything. What I will do is contact relatives and prepare money for friends coming from afar. You two should do everything else yourselves,” she said.

However, I didn't want to be honest about it and have the staff think, 'Maybe her family doesn't get along.' So, I kept my mouth shut.

As I sat there quietly with my head down, the staff member spoke to me as if they had sensed everything.

“In that case, how about we ask your mother to take on the role of lifting your veil on the day?”

As soon as I heard that, I looked up with wide eyes, saying, “Oh.”

(My mother? Taking on such a big role??)

Ignoring my hesitation, the staff member continued to explain.

“She might be nervous about appearing in front of so many guests, but since that scene ends right after the doors open, I think your mother will be just fine.”

I was grateful for the staff member's warm consideration. But, no, that really wasn't it. My mother isn't the type to step forward and say, 'Well, I suppose I have no choice,' with just a little push. In all seriousness, my mother truly dislikes standing out.

I think she is a mysterious person. Even though I'm her daughter, I have to say, my mother has distinct features and is a beautiful woman. When she was young, she looked like the actress Miyoko Asada. My mother even claimed, 'I'm known as the Miyoko Asada of Shiga,' so I'm sure of it.

Yet, I have a flat, plain face. So, when I was a child, it was quite painful for me when friends who saw my mother at class observations would innocently ask,

“Miku-chan, your mom is so pretty. Are you really her child?”

I learned from watching my mother that beautiful people have high self-esteem. And, while growing up under her, I also learned that having a beautiful mother makes you feel inferior.

My mother was always full of confidence, which I envied. At the same time, she was also an eccentric person.

Eccentric means someone who is a bit unusual. How was my mother unusual? For starters, when she went to the hair salon, she would order, 'I want to look like Miho Nakayama,' or 'Can you make me look like Ayumi Hamasaki?'

To begin with, she would leave out the 'haircut like...' part of the request. There are limits to what a hair salon can do. I imagine the hairdresser didn't know what to do when told that. They couldn't exactly tell the customer to go to a plastic surgeon, either.

But my mother would always go to the salon with a look as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Then, she would confidently tell them, 'Make me look like so-and-so,' and come back with a completely different hairstyle or hair color. And the look on my mother's face when she returned from the salon was always happy.

As soon as she got home, my mother would soften her cheeks happily and ask me, 'How is it? Do I look like Ayu?' Since she said it with such confidence, I had no choice but to reply, 'Yeah, you look like Ayu.' My mother was always happy.

Despite being overflowing with that much confidence and self-esteem, she refused to go out into the outside world or interact with people. I just couldn't understand the creature that was my mother.

Now that I am an adult, I wonder. Was the 'confidence' I felt from my mother real?

Perhaps she was actually someone who was deathly afraid of being hurt by the outside world, and that is precisely why she was desperately living in a narrow world of her own making.

In the end, perhaps I never understood anything about my mother. As I became an adult and my age grew closer to what my mother's was back then, I began to think about this vaguely.

My beautiful mother would never get close to anyone who denied her. I once heard her explain why she didn't work, saying she didn't want people to say harsh things to her and strip away the self-esteem she had worked so hard to nurture. That is why she stubbornly refused to interact with anyone other than her family.

My mother spent most of her life within the home, juggling a triple combo of a husband who worked away from home for years, three growing children, and the added burden of 'not wanting to work.' From the outside, my mother's perspective might have seemed narrow.

Yet, my mother always seemed happy.

On the other hand, I thought to myself, 'I must never become like her.' I believed that if one's perspective narrowed, they would view everything only through their own lens, end up pushing others around, and finish their life in a world of self-satisfaction. Having felt that keenly by watching my mother, I lived my life consciously trying to engage with the outside world.

That said, I was not very good at reading the room, and I could hardly say I had social adaptability. Despite my conscious efforts, I hadn't even managed to adapt well. However, I clung desperately to the tail end of society so as not to be shaken off.

I attended over 1,000 matchmaking parties, joined a Yosakoi dance circle where I said 'Nice to meet you' to people I met every week, and continued to work as a freelance salesperson.

Without fearing the pain of being hurt, I chose a path that involved meeting many different people. There were times I was hurt, but there were countless more times I learned through those encounters and experienced joy. At the same time, I was often exhausted and worn out by human relationships.

At such times, I sometimes wonder: perhaps the life my mother lived, tucked away in her shell and only tending to her own mood, was also one form of happiness.

As long as she was satisfied, that was enough. If possible, she didn't want to interact with others. She didn't want to stand out. Could a mother like that really handle the major role of lifting her daughter's veil in front of everyone?

Faced with the staff member's suggestion, my mind was instantly filled with worry and anxiety about my mother.

***

Prompted by the staff to 'go ahead,' I knelt down. This was also a performance planned by the staff, because my mother was short.

Then, my mother slowly lifted the veil covering my head.

As soon as she lifted the veil and saw my face, my mother hurriedly covered her mouth with her wrinkled hands, squeezed her eyes shut, and wept.

She was a person who never cried.

Not on the day I got lost as a child, not on the shameful day I was fired from my first job after only a month, and not on the day my homeroom teacher told me my high school grades were the lowest in the class.

She had often looked flustered with worry or stood tall with a face like a demon, angry at me. But I had never once seen my mother shed tears. I didn't cry in front of her either. We never showed each other our true feelings.

And yet, both she and I were now crying out loud like children.

'The bride is entering.'

With that solemn announcement, I took my father's hand again and walked down the aisle. The sound of sobbing spread through the venue like ripples. However, my sobbing would not stop. In a wedding venue that should have been solemn, the bride walked with her father while wailing, 'Ugh... waaaaah.' Perhaps because the sight was so bizarre, more than half of the guests couldn't hold back their laughter. 'Hehehehe,' sounds leaked out, shoulders shook, and they bowed their heads toward the floor. At the subsequent signing of the marriage certificate, my right hand was shaking so violently from nerves that I couldn't write a single letter. At that trembling, the venue couldn't hold back and a whirlwind of laughter erupted: 'Bwahahaha!' It was no longer a wedding; it was a comedy sketch.

Wait a minute, please. My husband had no savings, so I invested all 4 million yen of my own pocket money, which I had diligently saved during my single days, into this wedding. And yet, instead of being a 'bride who evokes emotion,' I had become the star who stole the show with laughter. Whether or not he knew of my panic, my husband beside me was

I'll support you, you know.

He said this while gently supporting my right elbow with his palm. Given the mischievous grin on his face, it was obvious he was enjoying himself, but strangely, my tension melted away.

After finishing writing my name, I let out a sigh. The pressure I felt from my husband's palm wasn't very strong. But there was a world of difference between having it there and not. I was glad he was someone who would gently support me with his palm, even if we didn't have any savings. I'm sure we'll continue to support each other like this for the rest of our lives. We surely will.

The ceremony, filled with laughter, entered its second half, and the time came for me to read my 'letter from the bride.' It had been a long-held dream of mine. I had simulated this moment countless times, imagining myself expressing my gratitude to my parents and seeing them shed tears of emotion.

I read the contents of the letter, my voice mixed with tears: 'I was able to live because you, Dad, earned money. I was able to avoid starvation because you, Mom, cooked meals for me.'

Looking back now, I think about it. My letter to my parents only mentioned money and food. It felt as if I had poured 4 million yen into the wedding ceremony just to express my gratitude for not starving. At times like this, I wished I had the strength of heart to write down moving, embarrassing episodes and tell them face-to-face.

However, thanks to the solemn background music playing in the venue, everyone in the room was sobbing. Of course, my father and mother were also wiping their eyes with handkerchiefs over and over again. Even though I only said thank you for earning money and cooking meals. Once again, the power of music is amazing.

After the ceremony ended, I received a call from my mother.

'The wedding was wonderful. On the train ride home, I sat next to your father.'

At home, the two of them never engage in idle conversation. They had a distance between them, likely because of my father's long-term overseas assignment, leaving them unsure of how to interact with each other. I wonder what they talked about on the train.

Perhaps they didn't even talk at all. But my mother's voice on the phone sounded happy and vibrant. It was a voice I had never heard before.

If that wedding ceremony made my clumsy mother even a little more honest, then maybe it was worth spending 4 million yen on it.

◇

Ten years have passed since then.

I married into a family in Aichi Prefecture, while my parents' home is in Mie Prefecture. Although they are neighbors on a map, it is a distance that feels just a bit too far to say 'I'm heading home now' casually.

The visits home, which used to happen several times a year, decreased as I became busy with work and housework. Eventually, as I had children and grew older myself, I realized that I was just coming up with more and more 'reasons not to go home.'

When I returned to my parents' home in Mie with my family for the first time in a year, my mother, who came out after sliding open the entrance door, looked much smaller and more frail than the last time I saw her. It looked as if her body inside her clothes had shrunk a size.

'I haven't been feeling very well lately, so I can't prepare much of a meal for you,'

my mother said with a lonely, apologetic smile, and then casually mentioned the medicine she takes every day.

'They say if I stop taking this, there's a possibility I could have a cerebral infarction.'

She spoke of such a terrifying thing as if it were today's dinner menu, laughing lightly. But the fact that she could talk about her health report so nonchalantly—was she still doing well? Or was it just a brave front? Her voice, however, was much thinner and more fragile than it used to be.

'You're exaggerating again.'

I deliberately laughed it off in my usual high-spirited tone, shrugging my shoulders mischievously as if to escape her gaze.

Becoming weak is not like the mother I know. Please, stay the strong-willed person you were back then forever. That fortitude will surely be your strength to live from now on. Please, stay well forever—I quietly hid that heartfelt prayer inside a veil of laughter.

[End]