My son took the mic at the $19,000 wedding I paid for and thanked his mother-in-law as his “real mom.” The room froze. I didn’t say a word… until I delivered the moment he’ll regret forever.

“Not too close,” she told the photographer once. “I don’t want the aesthetics ruined.”

Ethan said nothing. Not one word in my defense.

When I asked if I could invite three coworkers — women who had been my sisters when life was at its cruelest — Ashley wrinkled her nose.

“This is an elegant wedding. We don’t want anything… tacky.”

The women who helped me raise Ethan weren’t good enough to attend the very wedding I was paying for.

Still, I told myself that this was just stress. That once the wedding was over, I’d get my son back. That maybe, standing under the lights and flowers, he would remember who held him through every nightmare, who sacrificed everything for him, who loved him without conditions.

I arrived early on the wedding day in a coral dress that made me feel alive again. I had chosen it carefully — a warm color, modest cut, nothing flashy.

Ethan looked at me once and frowned.

“Do you have… anything more subtle?” he asked. “I don’t want people staring at you.”

Shame crawled up my neck like fire.

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