P.S. I have taken the liberty of contacting a Toronto tailor. He comes highly recommended, though I have doubts about any tailor who has not trained in London. Appointments are scheduled for August 1st. Do not be late.
I stare at the binder. Arjun stares at the binder. Oliver tries to eat a fabric swatch, and I pull it out of his mouth just in time, which is a sentence I never expected to apply to something called “subdued aristocratic rose.”
“She's coming,” Arjun says, his voice flat with bone-deep resignation. He has been outmanoeuvred by hismother for thirty-three years, and he’s just realized that the engagement was not the end of the campaign but the beginning of a new one.
“July 15th.”
“That is three weeks away.”
“She has appointments with a tailor.”
“She has appointments with a tailor she has doubts about because he did not train in London.”
“She wants the guest room prepared.”
“We do not have a guest room, Casey. We have a one-bedroom apartment in Kensington Market with a couch that Oliver has claimed as sovereign territory. I let my condo lease lapse this month. I have not told my mother.”
I’m processing this. I’m processing the fact that Meera Kapoor, who adjusted her son's collar with trembling fingers beside a car in Rajasthan and couldn’t bring herself to embrace me, has spent three weeks assembling a two-hundred-page wedding binder with fabric swatches and seating charts, and has booked a flight to Toronto, and has scheduled a tailor, and this isn’t an invasion. This is Meera Kapoor's love language. This is Meera Kapoor, unable to say 'I accept you,' saying it in the only language she knows, which is control and organization and the meticulous, exhaustive, slightly terrifying curation of every detail, and it’s the closest thing to a blessing she may ever be capable of offering.
The doorbell rings again.
Arjun and I both freeze. Oliver barks. Once. Sharp.
I go to the door.
A second courier. A second box. This one’s smaller, wrapped in cheerful floral paper, with a hand-lettered label in round, friendly handwriting that I would recognize from any distance on any continent because it’s the handwriting that labelled my brown lunch bags for eighteen years:
For my boys. Love, Mom.
The return address is Huntsville, Ontario.
I carry it back to the couch, and open it.
Inside is another binder.
It’s not a leather-bound, gold-embossed monument to maternal control. It’s a three-ring binder from the Staples on Highway 60, with a hand-decorated cover featuring cut-out magazine photos of wedding cakes, a pressed wildflower from the lake, and the words “CASEY & ARJUN'S WEDDING” written in the same sparkly gel pen that my mother uses for the gift shop's seasonal signage.
I open it.
The binder contains: a list of “suggested venues” (three options, all in Huntsville, including the town hall, the lakefront pavilion where the annual regatta’s normally held, and a handwritten note that says “the backyard is also available if the weather cooperates and we move the barbecue” ), a catering section (which is a single page that says “I’ll be making the cake. This is non-negotiable. I’m also prepared to do pies. The main course can be discussed but I have opinions” ), fabric swatches (eight, all from the craft sewing store in town, taped to the page with masking tape, including three variants of plaid, two denims of differing weight, and three solids described as “nice blue,” “cream but not boring cream,” and “this one reminded me of Arjun's eyes” ), a seating chart (one table that seats twelve, with a note that says “If we need more tables, Doug at Home Hardware has folding ones” ), and a timeline that says “Whenever you're ready, no rush, but August is nice by the lake.”
There is a handwritten note on the first page:
Casey, sweetheart. I know his mother is sending you something. I've seen her binder. She showed me swatches on our calls. They’re very nice swatches. They’re also completely wrong for a summer wedding, but I didn't say that to herbecause I’m a polite woman and I’m choosing my battles. I’ve enclosed my own suggestions. You’ll notice they’re practical and don’t require a degree in interior design to understand. The cake will be lemon. This is decided. I don't care what her caterer says. The venue will be discussed, but I want you to know that the lakefront pavilion is available and it seats two hundred and the sunsets are better than anything in Toronto, and I’m not going to lose my only son's wedding to a woman who thinks a tailor needs to train in London. I love you. I love Arjun. We’re going to do this MY way, or at the very least we are doing this OUR way, and our way includes pie, and a dock, and folding tables from Home Hardware if necessary, and it’ll be perfect because both my boys will be happy. Love, Mom.
P.S. Meera mentioned on our last call that she’s bringing her own tailor to Toronto, just in case. He’s apparently named Tarun, I don’t know if you know of him? I want you to know that your Uncle Ron still has his sewing machine and made a very nice suit for Doug's retirement party in 2019. Just putting that out there. The plaid swatch on page three is my favourite. It would look wonderful on you both.
I’m sitting on the couch with a binder in my lap and tearsrunning down my face, and Arjun is sitting beside me with his mother's binder in his lap and an expression that is cycling between horror and something that looks, against all probability, like tenderness, and Oliver is between us trying to eat the pressed wildflower. The apartment’s very quiet except for the nature documentary, which is currently explaining that octopuses have three hearts, which feels thematically appropriate.
“Two binders,” Arjun says.
“Two binders.”
“One from my mother, who has planned a full-scale military operation with forty-three fabric swatches and a tailor she disapproves of.”
“And one from my mother, who has planned a backyard wedding with folding tables from Home Hardware and a cake that’s already decided.”
“Lemon.”