My stepsons fiancée said only real mothers deserve the front rowbut my boy proved her wrong!
When I married my husband, Jamie was just six years old. His mum had left when he was fourno calls, no letters, just vanished one cold February night. My husband, Mark, was shattered. We met about a year later, both picking up the pieces of our lives. When we married, it wasnt just about usit was about Jamie too.
I didnt give birth to him, but from the day I moved into that little house with creaky stairs and football posters on the walls, he was mine. His stepmum, yesbut also his alarm clock, his peanut butter sandwich maker, his science project helper, and the one who drove him to A&E at two in the morning with a high fever. I cheered at every school play and screamed my lungs out at every football match. I stayed up late quizzing him before exams and held his hand through his first heartbreak.
I never tried to replace his mum. But I made sure he knew he could count on me.
When Mark died suddenly of a stroke before Jamie turned 16, I was devastated. Id lost my partner, my best friend. But even in grief, I knew one thing for certainI wasnt going anywhere.
From then on, I raised Jamie on my own. 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 university acceptance letterhe burst into the kitchen waving it like a golden ticket. I covered his application fees, helped him pack, and sobbed when we said goodbye outside his halls. I clapped the loudest when he graduated with honours, tears of pride streaming down my face.
So when he told me hed proposed to a girl named Emily, I was over the moon. He looked happier than he had in years.
Mum, he said (yes, he called me Mum), I want you involved in everything. The dress shopping, the rehearsal dinnerall of it.
I didnt expect the spotlight. Just being invited was enough.
On the wedding day, I arrived early. I didnt want to make a fussI just wanted to support my boy. I wore a pale blue dress, a colour he once said reminded him of home. In my bag was a small velvet box.
Inside were silver cufflinks engraved with: *The boy I raised. The man Im proud of.*
They werent expensive, but they held my heart.
As I walked into the venue, I saw flowers, a string quartet tuning up, and a frazzled coordinator checking her clipboard.
Then Emily approached me.
She looked stunning. Polished. Perfect. Her dress fit like it was made just for her. She smiled, but it didnt reach her eyes.
Hi, she said softly. So glad youre here.
I smiled back. Wouldnt miss it.
She hesitated. Her eyes flicked to my hands, then back to my face. Then she added:
Just a small notethe front rows reserved for real mums. I hope you understand.
The words took a moment to sink in. I thought maybe it was a family tradition or seating arrangement. But then I saw itthat tight smile, the calculated politeness. She meant exactly what she said.
*Only real mums.*
The ground seemed to drop beneath me.
The coordinator glanced overshed heard. One of the bridesmaids shifted uncomfortably. No one said a word.
I swallowed. Of course, I replied, forcing a smile. I understand.
I walked to the very back of the chapel, knees trembling. I sat down, clutching the little box like it could hold me together.
The music began. Guests turned. The procession started. Everyone looked so joyful.
Then Jamie walked down the aisle.
He looked handsomeso grown-up in his navy suit, calm and steady. But as he walked, his eyes scanned the rows. Left, rightuntil they landed on me, at the back.
He stopped.
His face tightenedfirst with confusion. Then with understanding. He glanced to the front, where Emilys mum sat smugly beside her husband.
Then he turned and walked straight to me.
He took my hand, and his eyes said everything I needed to hear.
