**The Forgotten Guest: Rethinking My Place After a Wedding Snub**
My son didnt invite me to his weddingapparently, Im too old. Now Im left wondering if I ever mattered to him.
The memory of that day still feels hazy. It was my sister who rang me up, cheerful as ever:
“Finally! Your boys gone and got married!”
I went silent.
“What?” I managed. “Married? You must be mistaken. Hed have told me. I *am* his mother, after all…”
But she wasnt wrong. Her son had spotted the photos onlinemine in a sharp suit, a young woman in white beside him, flowers everywhere, waiters weaving through the crowd, music playing, a lavish spread And the caption: “The best day of my life.”
I sat frozen in the middle of my kitchen. The kettle screeched, pancakes congealed in the pan. Only one question looped in my head: *Why?* Why hadnt he even mentioned it?
I had him late, at thirty-one. Nowadays, thats nothing, but back then, the midwives called me an “elderly primipara” like it was a medical condition. Ten years after he was born, his father dropped dead from a heart attack at work. Just like that, it was the two of us. I gave everything for himworked nights, scrimped, went withoutjust so hed never want for anything. I shelved my own life, hobbies, *everything*.
He grew up, graduated, moved into a flat. Lived his own life, and I kept my nose out. Hed pop round occasionally with a bag of apples, assuring me all was well. That was enough. Then one day, he showed up with Emilya sweet, down-to-earth girl, a decade younger. I liked her instantly. *Finally,* I thought, *hes found someone to share his life with.*
After they left, I lingered in the kitchen, grinning, already picturing grandchildren. If hed brought her to meet me, it was serious. And of course, if they married, Id be there.
Turns out, I was wrong.
When I rang him, he didnt pick up. Later, he called back, breezy as you please. I kept my voice steady:
“Anything youd like to tell me?”
A pause.
“Ah, youve heard Yes, we tied the knot yesterday. Off to the Maldives tomorrow for the honeymoon. Was just about to swing by…”
Sure enough, half an hour later, there he wasbearing a Victoria sponge and a bouquet. A peck on the cheek. Sat there like it was any other Tuesday.
“Yeah, we had a do. But it was smalljust mates, really. Youd have been knackered, Mum,” he said, as if explaining why I wasnt invited to a pub quiz.
“What about Emilys parents?” I asked.
“Oh, them? Yeah. But theyre not even forty yet…”
Something inside me cracked.
“And Im sixty. Not your vibe anymore, is that it?”
He looked down, quietly demolishing his slice of cake. I studied him, searching for the moment wed become strangers. I didnt need their glittery reception. But the registry office? Why did I have to hear it from Aunt Margaret?
“Didnt cross our minds,” he shrugged.
*Didnt cross our minds.* The cruelty of those words? Its not the anger or even the hurtits the sheer indifference. He didnt *bother* to tell me. Forgotten. The thought never occurred to him.
Yet Id given up everything. Nights at his bedside when he was feverish. Hauling heavy shopping bags when money was tight. Cooking, cleaning, taking extra shifts so hed have it a little easier. Never let myself be weak.
And him? He got married. Without me. Without even *considering* his mother might care. That shed be sat alone in this empty flat, flipping through old photos, wondering: *Did I ever matter?*
Now I ask myself: If I hadnt called, would he have told me at all? Or just carried on like nothing happened?
They say children owe their parents nothing. Fine. But is it too much to *remember* your mum on the day you call “the best of your life”?
He left. The silence settled. I didnt shout. No dramatics. I just let go.
Maybe there comes a time when every parent must accept their child is grown. And that theres no room left for them. But I never thought it would hurt this much.
Life has a way of reminding you: love doesnt guarantee gratitude. And sometimes, you have to love without expecting anything back.
