The wedding should have been a day of joy. I walked into the venue with my heart brimming with pride, ready to watch my son begin the next chapter of his life. Yet by evening, I found myself sitting alone at a table tucked away in the corner, a spectator rather than a guest.
The laughter of others filled the air, but my plate remained empty as I waited for service that never came. Then came his words—offhand, sharp in their carelessness, delivered with a smile that stung more than any scorn.
“She’s used to leftovers. She’ll manage.”
I didn’t react. I didn’t even flinch. Perhaps I should have, but instead I let the words hang, as if they were part of the evening’s décor. To others, it was a harmless joke, but to me, it was the echo of years gone by—the nights I gave him the best cuts of meat while I ate what remained, the countless times his needs came before my own.
No one noticed when I slipped away from the celebration. I walked out as quietly as a shadow, a mother fading into the night of her son’s happiest day.
