**Diary Entry, 12th June**
My stepson proved that saying wrongthe one about only birth mothers deserving the front row.
When I married my husband, William was just six. His mother had left when he was fourno calls, no letters, just gone one cold February night. My husband, James, was shattered. I met him a year later, both of us picking up the pieces of our broken lives. When we married, it wasnt just about us. It was about William, too.
I didnt give birth to him, but from the moment I moved into that creaky little house with football posters on the walls, I was his. His stepmum, yesbut also his alarm clock, the one who made him peanut butter sandwiches, his school project partner, and the one who drove him to A&E at 2 a.m. when he spiked a fever. I cheered like mad at his football matches, stayed up late helping him revise, and held his hand after his first heartbreak.
I never tried to replace his mother. I just made sure he had someone he could trust.
When James died suddenly of a stroke just before Williams 16th birthday, I was gutted. Id lost my partner, my best friend. But even through the grief, I knew one thing for certain:
I wasnt going anywhere.
I raised William alone after that. No blood ties. No family inheritance. Just love. And loyalty.
I watched him grow into a brilliant man. I was there when he got his uni acceptance letterwaving it around the kitchen like a golden ticket. I paid the application fees, helped him pack, and sobbed when we hugged goodbye outside his dorm. I cried proud tears when he graduated with honours.
So when he told me he was marrying a woman named Charlotte, I was chuffed for him. He looked happier than Id seen him in years.
Mum, he said (yes, he called me Mum), I want you involved in everything. The dress fitting, the rehearsal dinnerall of it.
I didnt expect the spotlight. Just being included was enough.
On the wedding day, I arrived early. Didnt want to make a fussjust wanted to support my boy. I wore a pale blue dress, the colour he once said reminded him of home. In my bag was a small velvet box.
Inside were cufflinks engraved with: *The boy I raised. The man I admire.*
They werent expensive, but they held my heart.
The venue buzzed with florists hurrying about, the string quartet tuning up, the coordinator ticking things off her list.
Then Charlotte approached me.
Stunning. Graceful. Flawless. Her dress looked made for her. She gave me a smile that didnt reach her eyes.
Hello, she said softly. So glad you could make it.
I smiled back. Wouldnt miss it for the world.
She hesitated, glancing at my hands before meeting my eyes again.
Just a heads-upthe front rows reserved for birth mothers. I hope you understand.
The words didnt sink in at first. Maybe she meant family tradition or seating logistics. But then I saw itthe tightness in her smile, the practised politeness. She meant exactly what shed said.
*Only birth mothers.*
My knees went weak.
The coordinator glanced overshed heard. One of the bridesmaids shifted awkwardly. No one said a word.
I swallowed hard. Of course, I managed, forcing a smile. I understand.
I took a seat in the very last pew, clutching the little box like it could keep me together. The music started. Guests turned. The procession began. Everyone looked so happy.
Then William appeared at the aisle.
Handsome in his navy suit, calm and steady. But as he walked, his eyes scanned the rowsleft, rightthen found me at the back.
He stopped.
Confusion flickered across his face. Then recognition. He looked ahead, where Charlottes mother sat proudly beside her father, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.
Then he turned and walked back.
At first, I thought hed forgotten something.
But then he whispered to his best man, who immediately came to me.
Mrs. Thompson? he said quietly. William asked me to bring you to the front.
Iwhat? I stammered, gripping the cufflinks. No, its fine, I dont want to cause trouble.
He insists.
Cheeks burning, I followed him up the aisle, feeling every eye on me. Charlotte turned, her expression unreadable.
William stepped forward. His voice was firm but gentle. She sits in the front, he said. Or theres no wedding.
Charlotte frowned. ButWilliam, we agreed
He cut in softly. You said the front rows for real mothers. Youre right. Thats exactly why she belongs there.
Then, louder, to the guests: This woman raised me. Held my hand through nightmares. Helped me become the man I am today. Shes my mother, blood or not. He looked at me. *Shes the one who stayed.*
Silence. Then someone started clapping. A ripple at first, then louder. People stood. The coordinator wiped her eyes discreetly.
Charlotte looked stunnedbut she nodded.
Tears blurred my vision as William led me to the front. I sat beside Charlottes mother. She didnt look at me, but it didnt matter. I wasnt there for her.
The ceremony was beautiful. Romantic, moving, full of joy.
Later, at the reception, I lingered near the dance floor, still shaken. Out of place, but deeply loved.
Charlotte found me during a quiet moment.
She looked different now. When she met my eyes, I saw the same love she had for Williamand I realised, in the end, we were all part of the same family.
**Lesson learned:** Love isnt about blood. Its about who stays.
