The night before my stepsons wedding, his fiancée whispered that only *real* mothers belonged in the front rowbut my boy proved her wrong.
When I married my husband, Christopher, the boy was just six. His birth mother vanished when he was fourno calls, no letters, just gone one frozen February night. My husband, James, was shattered. We met a year later, two broken souls picking up the pieces. Our wedding wasnt just about usit was about Chris, too.
I didnt give birth to him, but from the moment I moved into that creaky little house with its football posters and uneven stairs, he was mine. His *stepmother*, yesbut also his alarm clock, his peanut-butter sandwich maker, his science project saviour, the one who drove him to A&E at 2 a.m. when his fever spiked. I cheered at every school play, screamed myself hoarse at every football match. I stayed up quizzing him for exams and held his hand through his first heartbreak.
I never tried to replace his mum. But I made damn sure he knew he could rely on me.
When James died suddenly of a stroke before Chris turned sixteen, I was gutted. Id lost my partner, my best friend. But even through the grief, I knew one thingI wasnt going anywhere.
From then on, I raised Chris alone. No blood ties. No family fortune. Just love and loyalty.
I watched him grow into a brilliant man. I was there when his university acceptance letter arrivedhe burst into the kitchen waving it like a golden ticket. I paid his application fees, helped him pack for uni, and sobbed when we said goodbye outside his halls. I clapped the loudest when he graduated with first-class honours, tears of pride streaming down my face.
So when he told me hed proposed to a girl named Emily, I was over the moon. He looked happier than Id seen him in years.
*Mum,* he said (yes, he called me *Mum*), *I want you there for everything. The suit fitting, the tasting menu, all of it.*
I never expected to be centre stage. Just being invited was enough.
On the wedding day, I arrived early. No fussjust wanted to support my boy. I wore a pale blue dress, the colour he once said reminded him of home. In my clutch, a small velvet box.
Inside, silver cufflinks engraved: *The boy I raised. The man I admire.*
Not expensive, but they held my heart.
The venue was all flowers and string quartets, the wedding planner fluttering about with her clipboard. Then Emily approached me.
She looked stunning. Polished. Every inch the bride. Her smile didnt reach her eyes.
*Hello,* she said softly. *So glad you came.*
I smiled. *Wouldnt miss it.*
She hesitated. Her gaze flickered over my hands, then back to my face. *Just a small thingthe front rows reserved for real mums. Im sure you understand.*
The words took a second to land. Maybe it was tradition, I thought. Seating charts. But then I saw itthe tight smile, the calculated politeness. She meant exactly what she said.
*Only real mums.*
The floor tilted beneath me.
The planner glanced overshed heard. A bridesmaid shifted uncomfortably. No one spoke.
I swallowed. *Of course,* I managed. *I understand.*
I slipped into the very back pew, knees trembling, clutching that little box like it could keep me from breaking.
The music swelled. Guests turned. The procession began. Everyone looked so joyful.
Then Chris stepped into the aisle.
Handsome in his navy suit, calm and steady. But as he walked, his eyes scanned the rowsleft, rightuntil they found me, tucked away at the back.
He stopped.
His face darkenedfirst confusion, then realisation. He glanced at the front, where Emilys mother sat smugly. Then he turned, strode straight toward me, and took my hand.
His eyes said everything I needed to hear.
