When my stepsons fiancée said only *real* mothers deserved to sit in the front rowmy boy proved her wrong.
I married his father when Harry was just six. His mum had vanished when he was fourno calls, no letters, just gone one frigid February night. My husband, James, was shattered. We met a year later, two broken souls trying to piece their lives back together. When we married, it wasnt just about usit was about Harry too.
I didnt give birth to him, but from the day I moved into that little house with its creaky stairs and football posters on the walls, he was mine. His stepmum, yesbut also his alarm clock, the one who made his peanut butter sandwiches, helped with science projects, and drove him to A&E at two in the morning when his fever spiked. I cheered at every school play and screamed myself hoarse at his football matches. 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 damn sure he knew he could count on me.
When James died suddenly of a stroke before Harry turned sixteen, I was devastated. Id lost my partner, my best friend. But even through the grief, I knew one thing for certainI wasnt going anywhere.
From then on, I raised Harry alone. No blood ties. No inheritance. Just love and loyalty.
I watched him grow into a remarkable man. I was there when he got his university acceptance letterbursting into the kitchen, waving it like a golden ticket. I paid his application fees, helped him pack, and sobbed when we said goodbye outside his dorm. I clapped the loudest when he graduated with honours, pride burning in my chest.
So when he told me hed proposed to a girl named Emily, I was over the moon. He looked happier than Id seen him in years.
*”Mum,”* he said (yes, he called me *Mum*), *”I want you there for everything. Dress shopping, the rehearsal dinnerall of it.”*
I never expected to be centre stage. Just being invited was enough.
On the wedding day, I arrived early. No fussjust there to support my boy. I wore a pale blue dress, the colour he once said reminded him of home. In my clutch was a small velvet box.
Inside, silver cufflinks engraved: *”The boy I raised. The man Im proud of.”*
Not expensive. Just my heart in metal.
As I entered the hall, I saw flowers, a string quartet tuning up, the wedding planner frantically checking her clipboard.
Then Emily approached.
She was stunning. Polished. Perfect. Her dress fitted like it was made just for her. She smiled, but it didnt reach her eyes.
*”Hello,”* she said softly. *”So glad youre here.”*
I smiled back. *”Wouldnt miss it.”*
She hesitated. Her gaze flicked to my hands, then back to my face.
*”Just a small thingthe front row is reserved for real mums. Im sure you understand.”*
The words took a moment to sink in. Maybe it was tradition, I thought. Seating arrangements. But then I saw itthe tight smile, the calculated politeness. She meant every word.
*Real* mums.
The ground tilted beneath me.
The planner glanced overshed heard. A bridesmaid shifted uncomfortably. No one spoke.
I swallowed. *”Of course,”* I said, forcing a smile. *”I understand.”*
I walked to the very back of the chapel, knees trembling. Sat down, clutching the little box like it could hold me together.
Music swelled. Guests turned. The procession began. Everyone looked so joyful.
Then Harry stepped into the aisle.
Handsome, grown-up in his navy suit, calm and steady. But as he walked, his eyes darted across the rowsleft, rightuntil they landed on me, at the back.
He stopped.
His face changedfirst confusion. Then understanding. He looked to the front, where Emilys mother sat, poised and smug.
Then he turnedand walked straight to me.
Took my hand.
And his eyes said everything I needed to hear.
