Gillian, have you completely lost your mind? Her neighbour, Lydia Whitmore, snapped, stepping into the kitchen. Your only sons wedding is in an hour and youre sitting here sipping tea!
Lydia stood at the doorway, arms crossed, eyes blazing with righteous fury. Gillian didnt even look up from her cup.
Sit down. Youre already here and the kettles still on, Lydia said, moving to the chair opposite her.
What tea? Gillian asked, taking a sip and staring out the window. Dont try to persuade me.
Lydia fell silent, studying the woman in front of her. Theyd been friends since they were schoolgirls in Manchester, and Lydia thought she knew Gillian inside out. This, however, was a shock.
Whats happened? she asked softly. You two seemed to have patched things up after that argument.
Gillian gave a bitter smile.
He called two days ago and said, Come if you want, Mumif you want. As if I were heading to a market, not my own sons wedding.
Maybe he was just being casual? Lydia ventured.
Gillian turned to her, tears glinting. Im fortynine. I raised him alone, working two jobs to keep a roof over his head. I nursed him when he was sick, I stayed up nights when he had fevers. And now Im a burden, an extra weight.
Lydia reached across the table, laying her palm over Gillians.
Tell me everything, from the start, she urged.
Gillian poured a fresh cup for Lydia, fetched biscuits from the pantry, and exhaled heavily.
It began six months ago. Artem introduced us to Christina. Tall, slender, striking. I was thrilled at firstfinally my son, now twentyseven, had found someone serious. I said, Come over, lets get to know each other; Ill cook dinner.
And Christina?
She walked in, eyes scanning the modest terraced flat we call home. The walls still bore the faded wallpaper from the 70s, the furniture was old, but everything was clean. Id spent the whole day tidying, baking scones, hoping to make a good impression.
Gillians voice trembled as she remembered the evening. Shed put on her best blouse, brushed her hair, set the heirloom china on the table.
Christina perched on the edge of a chair like she was afraid of getting dirty. She smiled, but her eyes were cold. I asked what she did. I work in marketing, managing campaigns, she said, then added, almost as an afterthought, Your Artem is very talented; its a shame hes still stuck in a regular job.
Lydia scoffed. She was rude.
At first I didnt get it. Then I realised she was implying I hadnt helped my son grow, that Id held him back. Im a nurse in a NHS clinic, earning a pittance, while Artem graduated from university, works as a programmer, earns a decent salary, and lives in a new build. Im proud of him, of course.
Of course, Lydia nodded. What happened after that?
We sat down to dinner. Christina talked endlessly about her successes, the projects shed led, how much she earned. Then she asked, Gillian Whitmore, have you ever considered moving into a care home? They have good support and people your age.
Lydias eyebrows shot up. Are you serious?
I was speechless. Artem stared at his plate, silent. I told her I was fortyeight; a care home was absurd. Im still working, my health is fine. She laughed, saying she was only thinking ahead so I wouldnt become a burden to Artem.
Gillian stood and walked to the window. The spring sun bathed the street, birds chirped, and somewhere Artem was pulling on his suit, nervous about the ceremony. She felt the sting of being left out.
After that dinner they left. Artem hugged me and said, Dont worry, Mum, Christina is just practical. Practical, as if she were a piece of furniture to be discarded.
Did you say anything?
I called him later, told him exactly what I thought. He got angry, accused me of being jealous, told me to learn to let go because he was an adult and could decide who to live with.
Lydia shook her head. Kids can be brutally blunt.
We fought. He didnt call for a month. I thought Id lost my son forever. Then he showed up, begged forgiveness, swore I was the most important person in his life. I believed him.
Gillian sank back into the chair, the tea long cold, but she finished it.
A month later Artem announced an engagement. He called, Mum, were getting married! I asked when. He said, Soonvenue booked, everything set. Come Saturday, well discuss details.
And you went?
I arrived at their flatspacious, bright, freshly renovated, new furniture. Christina greeted me coldly, like an inspector from the health board, ushered me into the living room, didnt even offer tea.
Lydia clicked her tongue. Rude.
They showed me a guest listseventy people, none of my friends. I asked, What about my friend Lydia? They looked at each other and said, We have limited seats, only close friends and colleagues. I kept quiet while they described the lavish banquet hall, the expensive menu. I wondered where I fit in all of this.
A flock of sparrows landed on a nearby oak, reminding Gillian of afternoons when young Artem would toss crumbs from the window and laugh as they swarmed.
Then Christina said, Gillian, we were thinkingmaybe you could take out a loan for the wedding? Well contribute, but a little extra would help.
Lydia leapt up. She asked you to take a loan for their wedding?
Yes. I thought Id heard wrong. I told her, Youre serious? My salary is £30,000 a year; no bank would give me a mortgage for that. And you both earn well, why should I?. She replied, Were saving for a bigger house in the city centre. Usually parents foot the bill.
My god, Lydia murmured, cheeks flushing. She was audacious.
She glanced at Artem, who avoided her gaze. It hit herhe was siding with her new wife, expecting Gillian to foot the bill for a ceremony she wasnt even invited to.
I refused, Gillian said, voice cracking. I said, Youre adults, you earn your own money. Ill help where I can, but I wont take a loan. Christina pursed her lips, called me selfish, said I was selfish for putting my happiness before my sons.
What did Artem say?
He stood, walked me to the door, said, Dont be angry, Mum. Christina is used to her parents paying everything. I asked, And you? Do you think I should pay? He mumbled, then admitted they wanted an extravagant wedding but didnt have enough money.
Lydia poured another cup for both of them. The kitchen was silent, the air thick with unspoken hurt. Such stories happen often when children marry, but when its yours, the silence is deafening.
I left that night, walking the street, crying. My neighbour, Aunt Valerie from the flat above, called. Gillian, why are you so upset? I told her everything. She said, Christina has been telling the neighbours that youre a deadweight, that youre holding him back.
Seriously?
Exactly. Valerie overheard Christina in the lift, complaining that her motherinlaw was oldfashioned and that shed keep Artem away from her after the wedding.
Gillian covered her face with her hands, the pain of hearing her sons partner belittle her cutting deep.
I didnt call Artem right away. I waited, hoping hed explain. Weeks passed, then a message: Mum, the weddings this Saturday. Invitation coming. I opened the emailjust a link and the venue address, no warm words. I realised he no longer saw me as his mother, but as an inconvenience.
Lydia exhaled slowly. Maybe Christina has a strong influence, or maybe Artem truly believes this is whats best.
Outside, a neighbours TV blared, a car alarm wailed. The clock on the wall read 2:30p.m. Guests would be gathering soon. The sun was high; the day was beautiful, yet Gillian felt invisible.
Did you ever tell him you werent coming? Lydia asked.
I called yesterday. I wont be at the wedding, I said. He was silent, then asked why. I told him I wasnt invited, that I felt like a burden. He tried to reassure me, Well want you there, but I knew he meant it only if I wanted to be there.
If you want, Lydia repeated. What a hollow phrase.
Gillian stood, walked to the fridge, and grabbed the pastries shed baked the night before. Eat one, Lydia, she offered, holding out a sausage roll.
Lydia hesitated, then placed the roll on the plate. Do you regret not going?
Regret? Yes. I wanted to see my boy walk down the aisle, to hug him, to cry joyfully. But Id rather not sit among strangers and feel like a guest they tolerate.
Youve spent thirty years giving everything to him, Lydia said softly. Now he sees you as an obstacle.
Gillians eyes welled. Im not angry at him, just hurt. Hes alive, healthy, but to me hes lost. The boy I raised is gone, replaced by a man who thinks I belong in a care home.
Are you still angry? Lydia asked.
No. Its just pain, Gillian whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks.
Lydia pulled her into an embrace. Their shoulders trembled as they clung, the weight of years pressing down yet somehow easing.
Maybe things will change, Lydia whispered, stroking her back. Maybe hell realize.
Gillian pulled away, wiping her face. Christina wont change. Shell keep pushing me out, keep me away from my sons life. Im not blind.
They sat in silence, the tea growing colder, the kitchen light flickering. Eventually Lydia left, promising to return later. Gillian was alone in the empty flat, turned on the television but couldnt watch. Memories of Artem as a child washed over herbringing dandelions from the garden, drawing cards on Mothers Day, whispering, Mum, I love you more than anyone. Where was that boy now?
The phone rang. It was Artem. She stared at the screen, then let it go to voicemail. A few minutes later a text appeared: Mum, why arent you answering? The weddings already started. Everyones asking where you are.
She placed the phone down, typed a brief reply: Wishing you happiness. Take care of yourself.
More messages buzzed, but she ignored them. She rose, went to the bedroom, lay on the bed, and stared at the ceiling. Was she right to stay away? Could she have gone for the sake of propriety?
That night Lydia called again, asking how she was. Gillian said she needed space, asked her not to come over. She tried to sleep, but the citys night soundscars, a distant dogs barkkept her awake, filling the void with questions about the future.
Morning light spilled through the curtains. A knock at the door. It was Artem, suit rumpled, eyes red from a sleepless night.
May I come in? he asked softly.
Gillian stepped aside. He entered, sat in the same chair Lydia had occupied. She set the kettle on, poured tea, and they sat opposite each other in heavy silence.
You didnt come, Artem finally said.
I didnt.
Why?
Gillian looked at the son she barely recognized. Because I wasnt wanted, she answered simply. Because I realized Im no longer needed.
Mum, thats not true, he whispered, voice cracking. I chose Christina, thats my right. But dont say youre useless.
He covered his face with his hands. Im ashamed, Mum. Im ashamed of how I let her treat you.
Gillian placed the teacup before him. Youve always put her wishes above my feelings, she said. Youve let her silence me.
Exactly, he admitted. I was an idiot. I chased a picture of a perfect wedding, a status, and I hurt the most important person in my life.
Did you tell her? Gillian asked, voice trembling.
Yes, Artem said, eyes wet. I told Christina that if she never learns to respect you, Ill leave her. I said it at the reception, in front of everyone. She broke down, ran to the toilet, then came back apologising, promising to change. I dont know if shell keep her word, but I wanted you to hear it.
Gillian felt a warmth spread through her chest, a fragile ember of hope. I want to believe you, she whispered.
Artem reached across the table, clasped her hand. I want you back in my life. I love you, Mum. Always have, always will.
She squeezed his hand. I love you too. It just hurt so much.
He nodded. Im sorry. Ill do everything to make it right.
Christina wants to speak with you, Artem said. Will you let her come in?
Gillian hesitated. She didnt want to see the woman who had pushed her out, but if reconciliation was possible, she would try.
Let her in, she said finally. Well see.
Artem smiled, a genuine lift of his shoulders that hadnt been seen in months. He stood, pulled Gillian into a tight hug, his head resting on her shoulder. The boy she once raised was there, trembling but present.
She watched him walk out, feeling a lightness she hadnt felt in years. Maybe things would improve. Maybe Christina would change. Even if not, Gillian now knew she wasnt alone. She had a son who still loved her, a daughterinlaw who might learn respect, and a future she could still shape.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Lydia: How are you?
Gillian typed back: Artem came home. I think its a good sign.
She laughed, a soft, relieved sound. Life was unpredictablepainful one day, hopeful the next. The key was to keep hoping, to remember that even in the darkest moments a way out exists, often hidden behind courage and stubbornness.
She went to the pantry, pulled out flour, eggs, sugar, and began to bake a cake. If Artem and Christina returned later, there would be something sweet on the table, a small step toward healing. She had not attended the wedding, but she had reclaimed her dignity, her right to say no when she felt wronged. That was her victory, her truth, and it was enough.
