I Couldn’t Attend My Daughter’s Wedding In Paris – The Same Wedding I Helped Pay For. She Told Me By Email: “If You Want To Be A Part Of It, You Can Watch Online.” So I Just Said, “Sure. Enjoy Your Big Day.” The Next Morning, She Kept Calling Me.

This qualified. I sat on my back deck as twilight settled over the yard, sipping wine and thinking about how I’d gotten here. About the years of working 60-hour weeks after their father left.

About the college tuition payments that emptied my retirement fund. About holding Natalie’s hand through two breakups and a career change. About helping Justin with the down payment on his house.

I’d done everything right. Everything society tells mothers they should do. I’d sacrificed, supported, loved unconditionally—and somehow I’d still ended up alone on my deck, uninvited to my daughter’s wedding because Marcel’s mother, a woman who’d spent Natalie’s childhood in the south of France while I was here coaching soccer teams and making Halloween costumes, had “strong opinions.”

My thoughts drifted to Robert Caldwell’s wife, Victoria, who had died three years earlier.

I’d helped arrange the funeral, ordered the flowers, made sure there was food at the house afterward. Robert had held my hand at one point and said, “Sharon, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

It was professional, not romantic, but it had meant something. Someone saw me.

Someone appreciated what I did. When was the last time my children had truly seen me? The wine bottle was half empty when my doorbell rang.

I considered ignoring it, but something told me I should answer. Maybe it was Natalie come to apologize in person. It wasn’t.

It was Justin, my son, looking uncomfortable in his business-casual attire. He’d come straight from his job at the marketing firm. “Mom,” he said, stepping past me into the hallway without waiting for an invitation.

“Why aren’t you answering your phone? Nat’s freaking out.”

I closed the door and followed him into the living room. “Hello to you too, Justin.”

He turned to face me, running a hand through his dark hair, the same color mine had been before the gray took over.

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