The church pew felt cold and hard as I sat alone near the exit. The bride’s mother had physically blocked me from sitting in the front row. “Stepparents don’t count as real family,” she’d hissed. After twelve years of school plays, baseball games, and late-night talks, I was being erased from Nathan’s life.
I thought back to our first meeting – how I’d won over the wary six-year-old with a dinosaur book rather than a flashy toy. How I’d included him in our engagement by asking his permission over cookie dough. The way he’d started calling me “Mom” on his own during middle school, after I nursed him through pneumonia.
Just as the organ music swelled, Nathan turned from the altar and scanned the crowd. When he spotted me in back, his face fell. Without a word to his bride, he walked down the aisle, took my hand, and led me to the front row. “This is my mom,” he announced firmly, settling me next to his father. In that moment, every sacrifice felt worth it.
