I collect sisters-in-law as if they were going out of fashion
Imagine you are an Italian mamma pushing eighty. You have three sons, who for the sake of clarity will here be referred to as The Good, The Bad and (humbly penning this for you) The Queer.
The Good is a Catholic priest (reminder for all ye unfaithful: they cannot marry). The Queer is a practising homosexual (practice makes perfect) and dreams of wedding Dr B. – who, unfortunately, gets a rash at the very mention of the idea.
Given the unfavourable circumstances above, you still manage to give away a son three times in your life (well, if you'd been invited to all three weddings, that is).
The Good picked us up from the airport yesterday and while driving to see my mother he said he'd heard The Bad had remarried. The car hit a pot-hole on the country shortcut, I started giggling, Dr B. behind us enquired what the matter was and I translated.
The Good warned me not to mention it to mother who did not know yet (we are one of the few remaining healthy families who do not discuss anything personal - ever!) then added that this might put an end to the ugly rumours fuelled by The Bad pimping around with a small pack of Nigerian ladies.
Only that wife number three is from Colombia. I doubt this is going to boost his reputation in his tiny boring and bored village.
We all wish The Bad and the new Mrs Bad a long and happy life together.