Our Quiet Day Vera closed her laptop and looked at James. He was standing by the window, mug in hand, gazing at the garden below. “I’ve booked it for Thursday,” she said. “Eleven in the morning. We need to arrive half an hour earlier.” He turned, nodded. “All right. I’ll take the day off.” She waited, but he didn’t add anything. Vera got up and walked over to him. “Are you sure you don’t want to invite anyone?” “No,” James answered calmly. “We agreed, didn’t we.” She nodded. They really had discussed it: three years together, both after divorces, both adults with children and work. The marriage certificate was for practical reasons—inheritance, insurance, being able to sign documents for each other. Not a party, not a dress, not a hundred guests in a restaurant. Just registration. They’d submitted their application, as required, nearly a month ago, and now it was just a formality. “Then I’ll tell Mum tomorrow,” said Vera. James put his mug on the windowsill, hugged her. “It’ll be fine,” he said. She wasn’t so sure. Her mum rang on Saturday while Vera was at Sainsbury’s. She was waiting in the queue at checkout, phone pressed to her ear, listening as her mum’s voice got higher. “So you’re going to tie the knot on a weekday, with no family there, and barely any warning?” “Mum, I’m telling you now. A week’s notice.” “A week isn’t warning, it’s springing it on me. Vera, I’m your mum. James is a good man. Why are you hiding?” Vera gripped her phone tighter. “We’re not hiding. We just don’t want a big wedding. We’re both over forty, it’s our second marriage. We don’t need a crowd.” “So I’m just another guest to you?” her mum’s voice trembled. “Am I a guest?” “Mum, please.” “Are you embarrassed by me?” “No. We just decided to do it differently.” Her mum went quiet for a few moments, then said softly and coldly: “Do as you wish. But don’t be surprised if people think something’s wrong with you two.” She hung up. Vera unloaded groceries onto the conveyor belt, feeling herself tighten inside. James heard about his mum’s reaction from his sister. She texted him that evening: “Mum’s crying. Says you didn’t invite her to the wedding. Why?” He called his mum. The chat was brief. “You could have told me earlier,” his mum sighed. “I’d have baked a cake. Or bought flowers. Something.” “Mum, we don’t want a party.” “I’m not talking about a party. I just want to be there.” James sat on the sofa, staring at his phone. “Sorry,” he said. “But we’ve decided.” “Then don’t expect me to be happy,” she replied, and hung up. Vera’s friends started a discussion on their group chat. Katie wrote: “Vee, seriously? No dress, no photos? It’s your big day!” Someone else added: “Maybe at least pop to a café after? We’d just sit with you.” Vera typed a reply, deleted it, typed again. “Girls, thank you. But we truly don’t need that. We’re just signing papers, that’s all.” Katie replied almost instantly: “I get it. But I’m sad. I wanted to celebrate you in person.” Vera switched off her phone and put it on the table. James sat nearby, reading something on his tablet. “They’re upset,” said Vera. “Who?” “The girls. Mum. Your mum. Everyone.” James looked up. “It’s our decision,” he said. “Not theirs.” “I know,” Vera rubbed her face. “It just doesn’t feel nice.” “Doesn’t feel nice, or do you regret it?” She looked at him. “I don’t know.” Nastia, Vera’s daughter, came round on Monday night. She was twenty-three, sharing a flat with a friend, working at a design studio. Vera made tea, and they sat in the kitchen. “Mum, why bother getting married at all?” Nastia asked, unwinding her scarf. “You live together already.” Vera explained about documents, insurance, sorting everyday things more easily. Nastia listened, nodded. “Okay, fair. But why nobody there?” “We just don’t want the drama.” Nastia paused. “Grandma called me,” she said. “She cried. She said you’re pushing her away.” Vera squeezed her mug. “I’m not. I just don’t want to do what I don’t need.” “But she needs it,” Nastia said quietly. “She wants to be there—not for the wedding, but to be part of your life.” Vera looked at her daughter, at a loss for words. Wednesday morning, James arrived at work and his colleague Simon immediately asked: “Heard you’re getting married tomorrow?” James was surprised. “How?” “Your sister told my wife. They’re both at the same gym. Congrats, by the way. Why didn’t you invite anyone?” James shrugged. “We’re just signing papers. Quietly.” Simon smirked. “Right. Secretive you are, mate. Good luck.” James sat at his desk, switched his computer on. The word “secretive” lodged like a splinter. On Wednesday evening, the night before they signed the register, Vera and James had a row. Not loud, no shouting, but heavy. Vera said: “Maybe we should at least invite our parents? To the registry. Just have them stand with us.” James looked up from his phone. “You serious?” “Yeah. Seriously. I’m tired of feeling guilty.” “You feel guilty because they’re pressuring you. It’s manipulation, Vera.” “It’s not manipulation. It’s my mum. She wants to be at her daughter’s wedding.” “You’re not ‘getting married’, you’re signing a form. And we agreed this was for us, not them.” Vera paced the room. “Maybe I want them there. Maybe I want Mum to see me happy.” James looked at her calmly for a long time. “Then be honest: do you want a quiet wedding, or do you want to please everyone?” Vera stopped. “I just want everyone to stop pushing me.” “They won’t,” said James. “If we invite them, they’ll want a restaurant. If we do that, they’ll fuss about the guest list. If we invite everyone, someone will moan about the food. It never ends.” Vera sat on the sofa, hands over her face. “I’m scared they’ll hate me.” James moved next to her, hugged her shoulders. “They won’t. They’re just used to you fitting their plans. Now you’re making your own. It’s unfamiliar. But it’s your life.” Vera lifted her head. “Aren’t you scared?” “Yeah,” he said quietly, “but I’m tired of living by other people’s rules.” She leaned against him, and they sat together in silence until the sky outside went dark. On Thursday morning, they took a taxi to the registry office. Vera wore a simple pale dress, not bridal, just nice. James wore his work suit. He carried a small bouquet—seven white roses, bought from a tube station florist on the way. It was quiet in the registry office. The registration took barely fifteen minutes. Signatures, certificate, a quick kiss. Vera felt a strange lightness—and an emptiness too. She missed someone’s eyes, someone’s joy. But she chased the thought away. Outside, James said: “Let’s go to a café. Just sit together.” They found a little café a couple of streets away, ordered cappuccinos and croissants. They sat by the window, not speaking. Later, Vera took out her phone and texted her mum: “We’ve signed. All’s fine. We’ll pop round next weekend.” The reply came in a minute: “Okay.” James texted his mum the same. No answer came. Vera put her phone down. “Do you think they’ll forgive us?” “I don’t know,” said James. “But we did the right thing.” Vera wanted to believe him, but the doubt still tugged inside. That evening, Nastia came over. She brought a bottle of champagne and a little bouquet. “Congratulations,” she said, hugging them both. “I’m happy for you.” They sat in the kitchen, the three of them, drinking champagne from ordinary glasses, eating the salad Vera had made the night before. Nastia talked about work, made jokes. Vera watched her and felt something inside soften. Someone was with them. Someone came. After Nastia left, James hugged Vera at the door. “See?” he said. “All fine.” She nodded, but her mum’s words still rang in her ears. Ten days later, Vera went to see her mum. She brought a pie she’d baked herself, and two jars of homemade jam. Her mum opened the door, let her into the flat without a word. They sat in the kitchen. Vera put the pie on the table and sliced it. Her mum poured the tea. “How are you?” Vera asked. “Okay,” her mum replied, short. The silence stretched. Vera took a sip. “Mum, I’m sorry it turned out like this.” Her mum looked up. “I just don’t understand why you couldn’t ask me. Just ask.” “Because I was scared it’d become something I didn’t want.” “I’m not ‘it’. I’m your mum.” “I know,” Vera put her spoon down. “But I was scared. Scared you’d want a restaurant, guests, a dress. That you’d get upset if I said no. And it was easier not to invite anyone at all.” Her mum was silent. “You think I’m some kind of monster?” “No. I think you want what’s best for me. But your ‘best’ and mine aren’t always the same.” Her mum sighed and stared out the window. “It hurt,” she said at last. “Really hurt that you didn’t want me there.” “I do want you,” Vera said softly. “Just not as an organiser. Just as my mum.” Her mum dabbed her eyes with a tissue, nodded. “All right. What’s done is done.” They finished their tea, chatted a little about work, about Nastia, about James. And when Vera was leaving, her mum hugged her tightly at the door. “Be happy,” she said. At home, James looked at her with a question in his eyes. Vera shrugged off her jacket, walked into the kitchen. “How did it go?” he asked. “Okay,” Vera poured herself some water. “Not perfect. But okay.” James came over, hugged her from behind. “She’ll forgive you?” “In time. I hope.” They stood together for a few minutes. Rain streamed down the window in thin lines. Vera watched the water and thought that they’d done things right. Not perfectly, not without losses—but right. James kissed her hair. “We did it,” he said. “Yes,” Vera replied. “We did.” She turned to him, and they simply stood together in their kitchen, in their flat, in the life they’d chosen for themselves.