Three weeks before her wedding, my daughter asked me not to come because she was afraid I might embarrass her. I stayed away like she asked. At least, I meant to. Then the groom saw me sitting in the last pew, went completely pale, and walked away from my daughter at the altar.
I raised Lauren alone after her father died when she was six.
For most of her childhood, it was just us. I worked in the mortgage department of a credit union, packed lunches before sunrise, and learned how to stretch one paycheck across every emergency a growing child could produce.
She used to call me every day in college.
Lauren knew we were not rich.
She also knew she was loved.
At least, I thought she did.
When she was little, she used to crawl into my bed on Saturday mornings and announce that when she grew up, she was going to buy me a house with “two kitchens and no bills.” I never had the heart to tell her one kitchen was already enough work.
Then, during her junior year, she met Ethan.
She used to call me every day in college.
Then, during her junior year, she met Ethan.
At first, I heard everything.
“He’s smart, Mom.”
“How smart?”
I expected to meet Ethan within a month.
“Annoyingly smart.”
“Then I already dislike him.”
She laughed.
“No, you don’t. You’d love him.”
I expected to meet Ethan within a month.
Every time I asked, Lauren had a reason.
A month became three.
Then six.
Every time I asked, Lauren had a reason.
“Ethan has exams.”
“Ethan’s traveling with his parents.”
Then Lauren got engaged.
“His dad has a work thing.”
“They’re all busy.”
Eventually, I stopped asking.
Then Lauren got engaged.
She called me crying.
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