I still remember that day as if it were shrouded in mist—the day my sister rang me up, her voice bubbling with excitement.
“Well, at long last!” she exclaimed. “Your son’s gone and got married!”
I froze with the receiver pressed to my ear.
“What?” I managed to whisper. “Married? You must be mistaken. He would’ve told me. I am his mother, after all…”
But she wasn’t mistaken. Her own son had seen the pictures online—my boy in a sharp suit, his bride in a white gown, flowers everywhere, waiters weaving through the crowd, music playing, a grand buffet. And beneath it all, a caption: *The happiest day of my life.*
I sank into a chair, right there in the middle of the kitchen. The kettle wailed on the hob, the pancakes on the griddle grew cold. I sat motionless, my pulse hammering with one aching thought: *Why? Why didn’t he tell me?*
I’d had him late—at thirty-one. Nowadays, that’s nothing out of the ordinary, but back then, the midwives called me an “elderly primigravida.” Ten years after his birth, my husband was gone—a heart attack at work. Just like that. It was just the two of us after that. I pulled us through as best I could—working, sleepless nights, denying myself everything so he’d want for nothing. I gave up any semblance of life for myself—no rest, no love, just him.
He grew up, graduated, moved into a flat of his own. Lived his own life, and I never intruded. Sometimes he’d drop by, bring a bag of fruit, assure me all was well. I was happy just knowing he was thriving. Then one day, he brought round Emma—a sweet, quiet girl, ten years his junior, unassuming and kind. I liked her. I even thought to myself, *Well, here it is. He’s found the one who’ll be his family.*
After they left, I sat at the kitchen table for a long while, smiling, picturing the grandchildren I’d one day dandle on my knee. I was certain—if he’d brought her to meet me, it was serious. And of course, if there was to be a wedding, he’d ask me to come.
But I was wrong.
When I rang him, he didn’t answer. He rang back later, casual as ever. I kept my voice steady.
“Have you anything you’d like to tell me?”
He faltered. “Ah—so you’ve heard. Yes, we signed the papers yesterday. Off on our honeymoon tomorrow. I meant to pop in…”
And sure enough, within the hour, he arrived—with a cake, with flowers. Kissed me on the cheek. Sat down as if it were nothing.
“Right, we had the wedding. Kept it small, though. Just our crowd. You know how it is—loud music, dancing. Would’ve been rough on you…” He said it offhand, as if explaining why he hadn’t invited me to a barbecue.
“Did Emma’s parents go?” I asked.
“Well… yes. But they’re not even forty yet…”
Something inside me snapped.
“And I’m sixty. So I don’t fit your *vibe*, is that it?”
He looked down. Ate his cake in silence. I watched him and wondered when we’d become strangers. I hadn’t asked to go to the reception—I couldn’t care less about their young people’s revels. But why not even the registry office? Why did I have to learn of it from my sister and not from him?
“We didn’t think,” he said when I asked.
*Didn’t think.* Do you know what’s most chilling about those words? It’s not malice, not spite—it’s pure indifference. He simply hadn’t seen the need. Hadn’t occurred to him.
And yet, for him, I was everything. I sat up nights when he was feverish. Carried heavy bags when money was tight. Scrubbed, cooked, took extra shifts—anything to make his life just a little easier. Never let myself show weakness. Not once.
And he… just got married. Without me. And it never crossed his mind that his mother might be hurt. That she might sit alone in an empty house, staring at old photographs, wondering: *Was I ever needed at all?*
Now I sit and wonder—had I not rung him, would he have said anything? Or would he have gone on in silence, never speaking of the wedding, never deeming it worth mentioning?
People say children don’t owe their parents. And no, perhaps they don’t. But is it really so normal—to forget your own mother on the day you call *the best of your life*?
He left, and the house fell silent. I didn’t accuse him. Didn’t shout or make a scene. Just let it go.
Perhaps it comes to every parent—that moment when they must accept their child is grown. And there’s no place for them anymore. But I never dreamed it would cut so deep.
