I was trembling before I even stepped inside—sixty-eight years old, wearing the nicest navy gown I could afford, painfully aware it looked out of place among designer dresses and polished wealth. The wedding coordinator gave me a polite smile that screamed “burden.”
“Mrs. Patterson? Right this way.”
Back row. Row twelve. Seat fifteen. Behind the photographers. Behind everyone. Invisible.
Whispers followed me down the aisle. That’s Brandon’s mother… she used to clean houses. Not true, but the sting landed anyway. I’d taught English for thirty-seven years, but none of that mattered to the people who thought I didn’t belong. Even my son’s fiancée, Vivien, had warned me:
“Your poverty will embarrass us. Please don’t draw attention to yourself.”
Brandon said nothing. Just looked away.
So there I sat, metal chair biting into my legs, watching my son—the boy I’d raised alone, cheered at every milestone, sacrificed for every opportunity—marry into a world that decided I didn’t belong.
Then someone sat beside me.
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