**Diary Entry**
I still recall that day as if it were a blur—the phone call from my sister, her cheerful voice cutting through the ordinary afternoon.
“Finally!” she exclaimed. “Your son’s gone and got married!”
I froze, the receiver pressed to my ear. “What?” I managed to whisper. “Married? You must be mistaken. He would’ve told me. I’m his mother, after all.”
But she wasn’t mistaken. Her son had seen the photos online—my boy in a sharp suit, his bride in a white gown, a sea of flowers, waiters weaving through guests, music spilling into the evening. The caption read: *The happiest day of my life.*
I sank onto the kitchen floor. The kettle whistled, the pancakes cooled in the pan, and I sat there, too numb to move. One question pulsed through my mind: *Why? Why didn’t he tell me?*
I’d had him late—at thirty-one, which nowadays is nothing unusual, but back then, they’d called me an “elderly primigravida” at the hospital. Ten years after his birth, my husband was gone—a heart attack at work. Just like that, it was just the two of us. I worked myself to the bone, sleepless nights, denying myself everything so he’d want for nothing. No holidays, no personal life—just him.
He grew up, graduated, moved into a rented flat. Lived his own life, and I never interfered. Sometimes he’d drop by with fruit, assuring me all was well. I was just glad he was doing fine. Then one day, he brought Emma home—a quiet, cheerful girl, ten years his junior. Sweet and uncomplicated. I liked her. I even thought, *This is it. He’s found the one who’ll be his family now.*
They left, and I sat at the kitchen table for ages, smiling to myself, imagining little grandchildren to dote on. I was certain—if he’d introduced us, it was serious. And of course, if there was a wedding, he’d *invite* me.
But I was wrong.
When I called him, he didn’t answer. Later, he rang back as if nothing had happened. I kept my voice steady:
“Anything you want to tell me?”
A pause. “Ah. You’ve heard already. Yeah, we signed the papers yesterday. Off to the Maldives tomorrow. I meant to pop by…”
And he did—half an hour later, with cake and flowers. Kissed my cheek, sat down like it was any ordinary visit.
“Yeah, we had a do. But just a small thing. Close friends. You’d have hated it—all loud music and dancing.” He said it so casually, as if explaining why he hadn’t invited me to a barbecue.
“Did Emma’s parents go?” I asked.
“…Yeah. But they’re not even forty yet.”
Something inside me snapped. “And I’m sixty. So I don’t fit the vibe, is that it?”
He looked down, eating cake in silence. I studied him, wondering when we’d become strangers. I didn’t need the raucous party. But why not the registry office? Why did I hear it from my sister and not him?
“We didn’t think,” he said when I asked.
*Didn’t think.* The cruelty of those words isn’t in malice—it’s the indifference. It simply didn’t occur to him.
And yet—I *was* his life once. Nights spent nursing him through fevers. Hauling heavy shopping when money was tight. Scrubbing, cooking, working extra hours just to ease his way. I never let myself stumble.
And now? He married without me. Didn’t even pause to consider whether it might hurt. Whether I’d sit alone in this empty house, flipping through old photos, wondering: *Was I ever necessary to him?*
Now I ask myself—if I hadn’t called, would he have ever mentioned it? Or would he have carried on, silent, never deeming it worth sharing?
People say children don’t owe their parents. Fine. But is it normal to forget your mother on the day they call “the happiest of your life”?
He left, and the house fell quiet. I didn’t shout. Didn’t accuse. Just let him go.
Perhaps every parent must face it—that moment when your child becomes an adult, and you realise you no longer fit into their world. I just never thought it would feel like this.
