I spent $19,000 on my son’s wedding — my entire life savings — believing I was giving him one last gift of love.

Instead, I watched him erase me in front of two hundred people.

My name is Stephanie. I am seventy years old, and for almost half a century, I have been Ethan’s mother in every way that matters. I adopted him when he was five — a trembling, hollow-eyed boy who woke up screaming for parents who would never walk through the door again. I worked two jobs to give him a warm bed, a steady childhood, a future far bigger than anything I ever had.

I never remarried. I never had more children. Every part of my life — every paycheck, every dream I folded away — was for him.

And yet… that night, he acted as if I were a stranger.