Long ago, when I married my husband, young Tommy was but six years old. His own mother had vanished two winters priorno letters, no farewell, just gone one bitter February night. My husband, Edward, was shattered when we met a year later, two souls piecing themselves back together. When we wed, it wasnt just a union of two, but threeTommy was as much mine as Edwards.
I didnt bear him, yet from the day I stepped into that little house with its creaking stairs and football scarves pinned to the walls, he was my boy. His stepmother, yesbut also his alarm clock, the maker of jam sandwiches, the helper with school projects, the one who drove him to A&E at two in the morning when fever spiked. I cheered at every school play, shouted myself hoarse at his football matches, quizzed him late into the night before exams, and held his hand through his first heartbreak.
I never sought to replace his mother. Only to be certain he knew Id never leave.
When Edward passed suddenly from a stroke before Tommy turned sixteen, grief nearly swallowed me whole. Yet even in sorrow, one truth held firmI would stay.
From then on, I raised him alone. No blood ties. No family fortune. Just love and loyalty.
I watched him grow into a fine 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 pack his trunk, and wept when we said goodbye outside his dorm. I clapped loudest when he graduated with honours, pride spilling down my cheeks.
So when he told me hed proposed to a girl named Charlotte, my heart swelled. He looked lighter than he had in years.
Mum, he said (yes, he called me Mum), I want you there for everythingthe dress fitting, the rehearsal dinner, all of it.
I never expected the spotlight. Being included was enough.
On the wedding day, I arrived early, not to intrude but to steady my boy. I wore a pale blue dressthe shade he once said reminded him of home. In my purse, a small velvet box held silver cufflinks engraved: *The boy I raised. The man I admire.*
They werent costly, but they held my heart.
The hall was alive with flowers, a string quartet tuning, the wedding planner fretting over her list. Then Charlotte approached.
She was lovelyelegant, polished, her gown clinging as if stitched just for her. She smiled, but it never reached her eyes.
Hello, she said softly. So glad you came.
I smiled back. I wouldnt miss it.
She hesitated, her gaze flickering over my hands before meeting mine again. Then, almost too lightly:
Just a small notethe front row is reserved for *real* mothers. Im sure you understand.
The words took a moment to settle. I thought perhaps it was tradition, some seating arrangement. But then I saw itthe tight smile, the calculated politeness. She meant precisely what she said.
*Real mothers.*
The ground seemed to tilt.
The planner glanced overshed heard. A bridesmaid shifted uncomfortably. No one spoke.
I swallowed. Of course, I managed. I understand.
I took a seat at the very back, knees trembling, clutching the box as if it might anchor me.
Music swelled. Guests turned. The procession beganall joy and light.
Then Tommy stepped into the aisle.
Handsome in his navy suit, calm and steady. Yet as he walked, his eyes dartedleft, rightuntil they found me, tucked away at the rear.
He stopped.
His face shiftedfirst confusion, then understanding. He glanced to the front row, where Charlottes mother sat, poised and proud. Then he turnedand walked straight to me, taking my hand. His eyes said everything I needed to hear.
