She smiled condescendingly.

“Come on, Stephanie. A woman your age doesn’t need that much money. Besides, it would be an investment in your son’s future. Think about it.”

And she walked away, leaving me speechless.

I left the hall with my legs trembling. The valet brought me my car, a small 15-year-old sedan that contrasted shamefully with the luxury vehicles of the other guests. As I drove back to my apartment, the tears began to fall. Forty-five years of unconditional love, summed up in one night of public humiliation.

I got home and sat on my sofa, still in the coral dress. I looked around my modest apartment, the photos of Ethan on the walls from age 5 to his college graduation, his room, which I had kept untouched for years, hoping he would come to visit, the birthday gifts he never used, but that I kept lovingly. It all seemed like a mockery now.

I had lived for that boy. I had given up everything for him, and now he had erased me from his life with a single sentence: “My real mother,” as if the previous 45 years had been a lie.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I tossed and turned, replaying every moment of humiliation. The way Ethan had introduced me as “the lady who raised me” to some guests. The way Ashley had ignored me during the toast. The comments I overheard in the restroom.

“That poor thing. It must be painful to see your son prefer another family.”

The next day, Ethan called me from the airport.

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