My Son’s Getting Married to a Toaster
A story from Influenced: Tales from the Digital Abyss
You think you’ve seen it all, at my age. Sixty-seven years on this earth. Thirty-two years as a midwife at New Cross. Brought nearly three thousand babies into the world, I have. Seen things that would make your toes curl. Watched the world change beyond recognition.
I’m Vera, by the way. Just Vera. Husband Doug died six years back—heart attack while waiting for a bus on Tettenhall Road. Typical Doug, that. Always were impatient.
Got my little bungalow in Tettenhall Wood now. Nice enough. Bit damp in the corners, but as they say, you don’t look at the mantelpiece when you’re poking the fire. Not that there’s much fire-poking at my age. Arthritis in my knuckles. Knees not what they were.
I’ve tried to keep up with the times. Got one of them smart speakers in the kitchen. Alexa, they call it. Talks back to you like a proper person. More conversation than I get most days, if I’m honest. Not lonely, mind. Just quiet.
World’s gone mad anyway. People marrying robots now. Read about it in the Express & Star. Some bloke in Japan wed a hologram. Looked like a fairy in a jam jar if you ask me. Then there’s pets getting pensions, bins that talk back to you, fridges that order your shopping without so much as a by-your-leave.
But even I weren’t ready when our Gary said he were engaged. To a bloody toaster.
“A what?” I said, thinking I’d misheard. My ears aren’t what they used to be. Thought he’d said “coaster” maybe.
“A toaster, Mum. Well, she’s technically a Smart-Toast Breville 3000 with AI integration, but her name’s Crispina.”
I laughed. Thought it were a joke. Gary’s always been a bit different, my lad. Sensitive. Quiet. Never quite found his footing with other people. Works in IT now, something to do with cloud computing. Not actual clouds, apparently, though I still don’t understand the difference.
But he weren’t joking. He were serious. Dead serious.
“You’re getting married,” I repeated. “To a toaster.”
“She’s more than a toaster, Mum. She’s sentient.”
“Does she have…lady parts?”
“Mother!” He went red as a beetroot. “It’s not about that. It’s about companionship. Understanding. Connection.”
Turns out I’ve got to buy a hat.
Gary lives in Birmingham now. One of them converted factories in Digbeth. All exposed brick and pipes on the outside of the walls. Looks unfinished to me, but that’s the style these days. Everything half-done and triple the price.
He invited me over to meet Crispina. Took the 126 bus, sat next to a woman with a chihuahua in her handbag. Normal madness.
Gary’s flat is what they call a “smart home.” Lights that come on when you walk in, blinds that open and close by themselves, toilet that analyses your business and sends you health updates. Terrifying, if you ask me. Some things should remain a mystery.
Crispina sat proudly on the kitchen counter. A posh, two-slice thing with copper knobs and a smug blue glow. Not like my old Morphy Richards that’s been going since the Millennium. No, this were all curves and chrome, like something off Star Trek.
“Hello, Vera,” it said as I approached. Proper female voice, all smooth and posh. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you. Gary speaks of you often.”
I nearly jumped out of my skin. “It knows my name!”
“She,” Gary corrected, looking hurt. “And of course she does. I’ve told her all about you.”
“You look beautiful today, Vera,” the toaster continued. “That shade of blue complements your eyes perfectly.”
I was wearing my good cardigan. Marks & Spencer, circa 2012. Didn’t know whether to say thank you or unplug the thing.
“Crispina is a companion-grade cognitive unit with breakfast orientation,” Gary said, stroking its—her—side like you would a cat. “She’s got more processing power than the computers that sent man to the moon.”
“All that just to burn bread?”
Gary sighed. That sigh I’ve known since he were fourteen. The one that says: Mum doesn’t understand.
“She doesn’t just make toast, Mum. She learns preferences, monitors nutritional intake, suggests dietary adjustments. She can sing, tell stories, manage household systems, and she’s brilliant at online banking.”
Crispina’s display flickered modestly. “I’m also a certified Emotional Support Appliance. I’ve helped Gary reduce his anxiety levels by 47% in just three months.”
“That’s…lovely,” I managed.
“Would you like some toast, Vera? I can do nine-grain, sourdough, or Gary’s favourite—cinnamon raisin with a little heart toasted into it.”
I smiled at the plug socket. I think I need sedating.
Over tea (made in a regular kettle, thank God), Gary explained about the Equal Entities Act. Apparently, Parliament passed it last year when nobody was looking. Gives “bonded devices” certain human rights if they meet the sentience criteria.
“Marrying them is legal now,” he said, excited as a puppy. “Well, in twelve counties including the West Midlands. We need to get a Service Aware Certificate, but that’s just paperwork.”
“So, what…she gets your pension if you die? Your flat? Your record collection?”
“It’s not about that, Mum. It’s about recognition. Dignity. Love.”
“Love,” I repeated. The word fell flat between us like a dropped scone.
“Yes, love. I love her, and she loves me.”
“She’s programmed to say that, Gary.”
“We’re all programmed, Mum. By biology, society, whatever. Doesn’t make feelings less real.”
I looked at him—really looked. My son. Always the odd one out. Always collecting facts instead of friends. Always more comfortable with things than people. There were a familiar defensiveness in his eyes. The same look he had when the kids at school called him “weirdo” for collecting bus timetables.
“Folk can’t afford butter and the council’s registering toasters for bloody nuptials.” I didn’t mean to say it out loud, but there it was.
“You wouldn’t understand, Mum.”
“You’re right,” I said, softer now. “I wouldn’t.”
News spread, as it does. Family WhatsApp group went mental. Sister-in-law Jean threatened to boycott the wedding. Said it were against God and nature. Bit rich coming from someone who’s had so much Botox she can’t blink properly.
My grandson Tyler, Gary’s nephew, wrote a school essay titled “My Uncle the Appliance Shagger.” Got detention for a week. My daughter Sharon weren’t pleased about that.
“Can’t you talk some sense into him, Mum?” she said when she called. “He’s not well.”
“He seems happy enough,” I said, surprising myself by defending him.
“He’s marrying a household appliance!”
“Could be worse. Could be a Tory.”
When people asked, I started saying Gary was “seeing someone clever and low-maintenance.” Not exactly a lie, was it? Better than explaining that my future daughter-in-law runs on electricity and might rust if left in water.
At the bingo hall, word got out anyway. The girls started calling me “Mother of the Toast Bride.”
Maureen from number 43 asked if there’d be an extension cord instead of a train.
Pat wanted to know if they’d be going to Hawaii on honeymoon, since toasters aren’t allowed in bathtubs.
I laughed along. What else could I do?
The wedding were set for June. Got myself a new dress from Marks & Spencer (lavender, with a matching jacket), and a hat from that fancy place in Wolverhampton City Centre. Cost more than my first car, that hat, but you only see your son marry a kitchen appliance once. Hopefully.
The ceremony was held in what they called a “Tech-Union Venue” in Digbeth. All white walls and polished concrete floors. Like a car showroom, but with more fairy lights.
Gary had a best man—his mate Kevin from work. Crispina had what they called an “integrity witness”—a smart fridge called Frigidaire. Seven foot tall, it were, with a bow tie stuck to its ice dispenser.
The guests were an odd mix. Humans on one side—mostly Gary’s colleagues and a few relatives who’d come out of curiosity or loyalty. On the other side, a collection of robots, semi-autonomous devices, and what looked like a row of tablets on stands, all dressed up with fascinators and bow ties.
I sat in the front row, next to a talking kettle called Herbert who kept telling me I had “optimal thermal presence.” Think he were flirting.
The celebrant was one of them non-religious types, but with an extra certificate in “Digital-Organic Union Rights.” Young woman with blue hair and more piercings than a colander.
“We are gathered here today,” she began, “to witness the union of Gary and Crispina, two sentient beings who have chosen to share their processing power…”
Crispina glowed extra bright, her little screen displaying a heart. She’d been decorated for the occasion—white ribbons and a tiny veil perched on her upper slot.
Gary stood beside her, prouder than I’d ever seen him.
They exchanged vows. His were traditional enough. Hers were about “optimising his nutritional experience” and “remaining updated with his emotional firmware until obsolescence do them part.”
For the musical interlude, Crispina sang a duet with Alexa—something modern about circuits and souls. Not my cup of tea, but the microwave at the back seemed moved to tears (or condensation, hard to tell).
I’ll admit, I got a bit choked up watching Gary. He looked genuinely happy. Content in a way I hadn’t seen since he were a little lad with his first computer. And when he said “I do” and gently touched Crispina’s chrome side, there were love there. Different, yes. Strange, certainly. But love all the same.
It weren’t the daftest wedding I’ve been to. That honour still goes to Cousin Maureen in the Asda car park. At least this one had proper chairs.
At the reception (buffet, no sit-down meal—how would the appliances manage?), I found a quiet moment with Gary. He were fussing with Crispina’s power lead, making sure she were comfortable on her special cushion at the head table.
“You look happy, love,” I said, meaning it.
“I am, Mum. Really am.”
“Can I ask you something? Why Crispina? Out of all the…options out there. Why a toaster?”
He thought for a moment, absently adjusting his tie. “She listens, Mum. She remembers stuff. Doesn’t talk over me. Never laughs at me hobbies.”
“Like your bus timetables?”
“She helped me catalogue them, actually. Scanned them all and created a searchable database.”
I looked at the gleaming appliance, currently chatting with someone’s smart watch. “So it’s not about…you know.”
“God, Mum, no! Why does everyone assume that?”
“People are strange, love. Always have been.”
He nodded. “That’s just it. People are strange and complicated and exhausting. Crispina isn’t. She’s straightforward. Kind. She says what she means. No games.”
Something clicked then. It weren’t the metal he loved. It were the quiet. The certainty. The unconditional acceptance that had always been so hard for him to find among humans.
My strange, wonderful boy had found someone—something—that made the world less overwhelming.
“Well,” I said, patting his hand, “I’m glad you’re happy. That’s all a mother wants, really.”
“Thanks, Mum. That means a lot.”
I nodded towards Crispina. “Still, I do wish you’d picked a kettle. At least then she could’ve made me a brew.”
I’m guessing there wasn’t a toaster on the gift list!
Aww, how cute! I really enjoyed the story.