Forgotten Guest: My Doubt Over Being Excluded from a Wedding
My son didnt invite me to his wedding, thinking I was too old. Now I wonder whether I ever meant anything to him.
I still see that day through a haze. My sister called to congratulate me:
At last! Your son got married!
I was silent on the line.
What? I whispered. Married? You must be joking. He would have told me. Im his mother, after all
But she wasnt mistaken. Her son had seen on social media pictures of mine in a tuxedo, a young woman in a white dress beside him, flowers everywhere, waiters, music, a buffet with the caption: The best day of my life.
I sat, rigid, in the kitchen. The kettle whistled, pancakes cooled in the pan. Only one question could form in my mind: why? Why hadnt he even mentioned it?
I got him late, at thirtyone. Today it seems insignificant, but back then I was labeled a old firsttime mother at the maternity ward. Ten years after his birth, his father died of a heart attack at work. We were left alone. I gave everything for himworking day and night, depriving myselfjust so he would lack nothing. I abandoned my own life, my hobbies everything for him.
He grew up, earned his degree, moved into his own flat. He lived his life, and I stayed out of it. Occasionally hed drop by with fruit, saying everything was fine. That was enough for me. Then one day he arrived with Amélie, a smiling, simple girl ten years his junior. I liked her. I thought, Finally, hes found someone who can be his family.
After they left, I stayed in the kitchen, smiling, already picturing grandchildren. If she had been introduced to me, it meant it was serious. And of course, if they married, I would be invited.
I was wrong.
When I called, he didnt answer. He later called back as if nothing had happened. I tried to stay calm:
Do you have something to tell me?
He hesitated.
Ah, you know Yes, we got married yesterday. And tomorrow were off on our honeymoon. I thought Id drop by
Sure enough, half an hour later he was there with a pie and flowers, planting a kiss on my cheek, sitting as if everything were normal.
Yes, there was a wedding. It was intimate, just friends. You get the music, the dancing it would have exhausted you, he said, as if excusing not inviting me to a barbecue.
And Amélies parents? I asked.
Them yes. But theyre not even forty yet
Something snapped inside me.
Im sixty. I no longer fit your style, is that it?
He lowered his eyes, eating his portion in silence. I watched him, trying to pinpoint when we became strangers. I didnt want their party, but the civil ceremony? Why did I hear about it from my sister?
We just didnt think about it, he replied.
Not thinking. The worst part of those words isnt anger or hurt its the indifference. He didnt deem it necessary to tell me. It was forgotten. He never considered it.
Yet I sacrificed everything for himnights at his bedside when he was ill, heavy grocery runs when money was tight. I washed, cooked, worked evenings so his life could be a little gentler. I never allowed myself to appear weak.
And he he married. Without me. Without ever imagining his mother might suffer. Alone in that empty flat, flipping through old photos, wondering: did I ever matter?
Now I ask myself: if I hadnt called, would he have told me? Would he have gone on as if nothing mattered?
People say children owe nothing. Fine. But is it acceptable to forget your mother on the day you claim is the best?
He left. Silence settled. I didnt accuse him. No yelling, no scene. I simply let go.
Perhaps there comes a moment when every parent must accept that their child is an adult and no longer belongs in their life. I never thought it would hurt this much.
Life sometimes reminds us that love does not guarantee recognition and that we must learn to love without expecting anything in return.
