The most important moments of my story didn’t happen after the wedding.
They happened during it.
Three hundred guests filled Rosewood Grand Hall, crystal chandeliers glowing above cascading white florals and silk drapes. It was meant to be the happiest day of my life. I was twenty-eight, standing at the altar in an ivory gown I had paid for myself, ready to marry Julian Ashford—the man I believed loved me.
My mother, Marina Lewis, sat quietly in the second row. She wore a modest midnight-blue dress, her hands folded tightly in her lap. After my father passed away, she raised me alone, working two jobs, cleaning office buildings late at night so I could attend college.
She never complained. Never asked for recognition. That day, she only smiled nervously, clearly out of place among Julian’s wealthy family.
The ceremony itself went smoothly.
Then came the reception speeches.
Julian’s father, Edward Ashford, took the microphone first. His opening remarks sounded polite enough—until his tone shifted. He joked about “different social classes,” about how “love can overcome even financial imbalance.” Laughter rippled through the room.
Then Julian’s mother, Diana Ashford, stood. She looked directly at my mother and smiled thinly.
“Some people come from refinement,” she said, “and others from… service work. But today proves anyone can sit at the same table.”
This time, the laughter was louder.
My pulse thundered in my ears. I turned to Julian, waiting for him to stop it—to say something.
He didn’t.
He laughed. Not awkwardly. Not nervously. He laughed like he agreed.
Then his sister chimed in, “At least the bride learned manners. Guess those didn’t come from home.”
Someone clapped. Someone spilled wine laughing.
My mother lowered her eyes. Her smile vanished.
And in that moment, everything became painfully clear.
I stood up.
See more on the next page
Advertisement
