The son didn’t invite me to his wedding because he thought I was just an old woman. Now I’m not even sure if he ever really needed me.
To this day, that memory hangs over me like a fog. The call came from my sister—her voice bright, almost giddy.
“At last!” she said. “Your boy’s gone and got married!”
I froze. The phone felt heavy in my hand.
“What?” I whispered. “Married? You must be mistaken. He would’ve told me. I’m his mother, for heaven’s sake.”
But she wasn’t wrong. Her own son had seen the pictures online—my boy in a sharp suit, his bride in white, flowers everywhere, waiters, music, the whole affair. And beneath it, the caption: *The happiest day of my life.*
I sank into a chair, right there in the middle of the kitchen. The kettle screamed. The bacon cooled in the pan. But I just sat there, numb, one thought pounding in my head—*Why? Why didn’t he tell me?*
I’d had him late. Thirty-one—nothing unusual now, but back then, the midwives called me an “older mother.” Then, ten years later, his father was gone—a heart attack at work. Just like that. It was just the two of us after that. I worked myself to the bone, nights without sleep, denying myself everything so he wouldn’t go without. My own life? Forgotten. No holidays, no one to lean on—just him.
He grew up, finished uni, moved into a flat of his own. Lived his own life, and I never interfered. Sometimes he’d visit, bring fruit, tell me he was doing fine. I was happy just knowing he was all right. Then he introduced me to Emily—a sweet girl, ten years younger, quiet and kind. I liked her. I even thought, *This is it. He’s found his family.*
They left, and I sat at the kitchen table for ages, smiling, imagining grandchildren. If he’d brought her to meet me, it had to be serious. And if there was a wedding, of course he’d invite me.
But I was wrong.
When I called him, he didn’t answer. Later, he rang back like nothing was amiss. I kept my voice steady.
“Anything you want to tell me?”
He hesitated.
“Oh. You’ve heard. Yeah, we signed the papers yesterday. Off to Italy tomorrow for the honeymoon. Was gonna drop by…”
True enough, half an hour later, there he was—cake in hand, a bouquet. Kissed my cheek. Sat down like it was any other day.
“Yeah, we had a do. But kept it small. Just mates, really. You know how it is—loud music, dancing. Would’ve been a bit much for you…” He said it so casually, as if explaining why he hadn’t invited me to the pub.
“Did Emily’s parents go?” I asked.
“Uh… yeah. But they’re not even fifty yet.”
Something inside me snapped.
“And I’m sixty-three. So I don’t fit the vibe, is that it?”
He looked down, silent, picking at the cake. I stared at him, wondering when we’d become strangers. I hadn’t asked for a seat at the head table. I didn’t need their raucous celebration. But why not the registry office? Why did I have to hear it from my sister?
“We didn’t think,” he said when I asked.
*We didn’t think.*
Do you know what’s worse than anger or hurt? Indifference. It never crossed his mind. He just… didn’t think to.
And yet—I’d been his whole world once. Nights spent nursing him through fevers. Dragging heavy bags when money was tight. Washing, cooking, taking extra shifts just to keep him comfortable. I never let myself crumble. Not once.
And now? He got married. Without me. And it never even occurred to him that his mother might grieve for the absence. That she might sit alone in a silent house, flipping through old photos, wondering—*Did I ever matter to him at all?*
Now I sit here and think—if I hadn’t called, would he have ever told me? Or would he have just carried on, never mentioning the wedding, never seeing the need?
People say children don’t owe their parents anything. Fine. But is it truly normal to forget your own mother on the day you call *the best of your life?*
He left, and the house fell quiet. I didn’t shout. Didn’t make a scene. Just… let it go.
Maybe every parent reaches a point where they must accept—their child is grown. And there’s no room left for them. But I never knew it would hurt this much…
