Thorns in the Bouquet: How I Arranged the Ultimate Trap for My Entitled Mother-in-Law
Floristry, contrary to popular belief, isn’t about fluttering like an elf among petals, inhaling the scent of morning dew.
Floristry is about lugging buckets of ice water that weigh roughly as much as my mother-in-law’s sins, getting your hands bloody with pruning shears, and being able to explain to a client with a gentle smile why a bouquet of blue peonies in December costs as much as a Boeing wing.
I’m forty-two, I have my own cozy studio in the city center, two assistants, and a nerve of steel.
My husband, Leo, is a saintly man whose instinct for self-preservation is so brilliantly developed that he doesn’t interfere in my relationships with his family. Leo knows: I’m a patient woman, but if I start a fight, I take no prisoners.
His mother, Vera Ivanovna, is a self-assured woman. She has a hairdo shaped like a pasta factory explosion, secured with Prelest hairspray, and is firmly convinced that my job is “twirling brooms out of boredom.” We communicate politely, at a safe distance. But only until the family needs a freebie.
It all started on a gloomy November Tuesday. The door to my studio rang, and Vera Ivanovna materialized in the doorway, accompanied by her niece, Kira. Kira, twenty-five, works as a “content maker” (mostly taking selfies in the mirrors of other people’s restaurants) and is preparing for her wedding.
“Mayochka, hello!” Vera Ivanovna pushed aside a bucket of hydrangeas, as if she owned the place.
“We’re here as family. Kira’s getting married. We need to decorate the hall. Well, there’s the arch, the guest tables, the presidium—everything should be expensive and opulent. And a bouquet, of course, that should hang to the floor! You’re a master of flowers, it’s a piece of cake for you.”
Kira silently shoved her phone under my nose. The screen glowed with a picture: cascades of white orchids, clouds of gypsophila, thousands of White O’Hara roses. The budget for a wedding like this, in terms of flowers, would start at the price of a used foreign car.
“Very beautiful,” I said sincerely. “An excellent choice.”
“Well then!” my mother-in-law rejoiced.
“Do the same for us. Only we won’t pay much, we’re our own. You have all sorts of discounts at the depots, maybe some expired items that still look okay. You can figure it out from what you have on hand.”
I mentally counted to five. Inhale, exhale. A saccharine smile.
“Vera Ivanovna, Kira. Let’s be honest. What you see in the picture is a premium flower. There’s no such thing as a ‘sale’ flower of this quality.”
“I’m offering you two options. Option one, the generous one: I’m giving Kira a gorgeous bridal bouquet and groom’s boutonniere for her wedding. Made from the finest flowers, absolutely free, it’s my wedding gift. You can order the rest of the decorations wherever you like.”
My mother-in-law’s face fell.
“And option two?” she narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
“Option two, the partnership option. I’m doing the complete decorations for you. My work, my girls’ work, and the installation and dismantling are complimentary. But you pay for the flowers and supplies strictly according to wholesale receipts from the database. Break even. According to Kira’s picture, it would cost approximately one hundred and fifty thousand rubles.”
The studio fell silent, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator.
“One hundred and fifty thousand?!” “For grass that’ll wither in a day?!” Vera Ivanovna clutched her heart.
“Maya, for God’s sake! Where are we getting that kind of money? We haven’t even paid for the limo yet! We’re a family!”
“Flowers don’t grow in my backyard, Vera Ivanovna. I buy them. For euros,” I retorted tenderly.
They whispered for about ten minutes, huddled near the succulent display. Finally, my mother-in-law turned to me with a sly, Lenin-like squint:
“Fine, Maya. We’ll choose the second option. Do as in the picture. But we’ll give you the money after the wedding. From the envelopes we gave you. You know us, we won’t cheat!”
Oh, I knew them. I knew them perfectly well. “Payment from envelopes,” translated from the language of impudent relatives, means: “After the wedding, we’ll say we were given empty cards, shrug our shoulders, cry, and then fly to Turkey with the rest of the money. And you, Mayochka, will get by; you’re family.” If I agree, I’ll become the main sponsor of this celebration of love, and I’ll do it by force.
Refuse? There would be a scandal throughout the clan, with the husband involved and calls in the middle of the night: “Your wife left little orphan Kira without a holiday!”
“Agreed,” I smiled radiantly. “I’ll do everything in the best possible way.”
Vera Ivanovna and Kira left, triumphant. They were sure they’d brilliantly outwitted “that florist.” And I made myself some coffee, opened my laptop, and began plotting my revenge.
I wasn’t planning on investing a single penny of my own money, but ruining my reputation with poor decorations wasn’t in my plans either.
I needed to find someone to pay for the banquet. And I knew exactly who it would be.
The next day, I called Rosa Borisovna, Kira’s future mother-in-law. She was a lady of a completely different caliber. The chief accountant of a large plant, a woman whose very brooches on her lapel cast a mild disdain on those around her.
She and Vera Ivanovna were locked in a cold war for influence over the young couple. Rosa Borisovna considered Kira “a simpleton without a dowry.”
