Friday the 13th did indeed bode ill. The Boy's parents are here and his mother is slowly sucking the will to live from the air around her. Maybe it's not that bad, but I shall continue to feel so.
I'm back here under pretense of making them a CD of the wedding pictures. They've got about eighty of them, and they can't have any more. There are a very few photographs from that day in which I look genuinely happy. They only exist in the film Photographer Mark took, and I don't want them passed around. Anyone can have the ones featuring my phoney emotion: outer gladness forced over interior extreme discomfort. I don't mind that being given out, but I don't want anyone else to have my happiness, if that makes sense. I guess it's because I don't think the people who are demanding they have the pictures really contributed that much to my happiness that day. They contributed to the emotion I'm willing to give them, ill at ease but faking it for pictures and appearances.
When all I have from that day are a few brief moments of happiness when I actually got to be alone without anyone telling me I should be doing something to make them happy. Eight of the pictures are of me being married, the rest of them are about making other people happy and failing. After spending most of the day fearing that The Boy's mother's family would come up with some other way to be totally crude, embarrassing and demanding, why should I be forced to show my genuine happiness to them?
The other ones I'm not giving them are the pictures soley of my family. What the hell do they need them for? That would be like having a bunch of pictures of Nathan's brother's wife's family. What for?
So, I don't give them all of the pictures. I won't tell them that, because I can't tell them why. But if she gets too self righteous, and thinks she hasn't got all of them, I think I won't have much of a choice.