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Ethan met Ashley three years ago, and from the beginning, she looked at me as though I were something she’d found stuck to her shoe. Her mother, Carol, was the kind of woman who attended charity galas, collected beach houses, and took effortless pride in reminding everyone of it. Compared to her, I was just an aging widow in a modest apartment with hands that still carried the scars of factory work.
Ashley didn’t say it out loud, but I heard it in every condescending smile:
Soon Ethan began behaving like he agreed with her.
Phone calls dwindled. Holidays became rushed visits. He stopped hugging me goodbye. It was as if the more polished his life became, the more he felt ashamed of the woman who raised him.
Then one afternoon, he came over and sat in my living room with the stiffness of someone delivering bad news.
“We need money for the wedding,” he said flatly. “Ashley’s parents covered their share. Now we need you to contribute.”
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