**The Forgotten Guest: A Mothers Reflection on Absence at a Wedding**
My son did not invite me to his wedding, deeming me too old. Now, I wonder if I ever truly mattered to him.
I remember that day as though through a haze. It was my sister who called to congratulate me:
“At last! Your son has married!”
I stood silent on the phone.
“What?” I whispered. “Married? You must be mistaken. He would have told me. I am his mother, after all…”
But she was not wrong. Her own son had seen the pictures onlinemy boy in a fine suit, a young woman in white beside him, flowers everywhere, waiters, music, a lavish spread… The caption read: “The happiest day of my life.”
I sat motionless in the kitchen. The kettle whistled, the pancakes cooled in the pan. Only one question echoed in my mind: why? Why had he not even mentioned it?
I had him late, at thirty-one. Nowadays, that is nothing, but back then, the midwives called me an “elderly first-time mother.” Ten years after his birth, his father died of a heart attack at work. We were left alone. I gave everything for himworked day and night, denied myself, just so he would want for nothing. I set aside my own life, my pleasures… all for him.
He grew up, earned his degree, moved into a flat of his own. He lived his life, and I did not interfere. Sometimes he would visit, bringing fruit, saying all was well. That was enough. Then one day, he arrived with Emily, a bright, unassuming girl ten years his junior. I liked her at once. I thought, “At last, he has found someone to be his family.”
After they left, I stayed in the kitchen, smiling, already imagining grandchildren. If he had brought her to meet me, it was serious. And surely, if they married, he would invite me.
I was wrong.
When I called him, he did not answer. Later, he rang back as if nothing were amiss. I tried to keep my voice steady:
“Is there something youd like to tell me?”
He hesitated.
“Ah, youve heard… Yes, we married yesterday. And tomorrow, were off for the honeymoon. I meant to stop by…”
True enough, half an hour later, he was at my door with a pie and flowers. A kiss on the cheek. Sitting there as though all were perfectly ordinary.
“Yes, there was a wedding. But it was small. Just close friends. You understandmusic, dancing… It would have tired you,” he said, as if justifying not inviting me to a garden party.
“And Emilys parents?” I asked.
“Them… yes. But theyre not even forty yet…”
Something inside me shattered.
“Im sixty. I dont fit your style anymore, is that it?”
He looked down, eating his slice in silence. I watched him, searching for the moment we had become strangers. I did not want their celebration. But the registry office? Why did I learn of it from my sister?
“Didnt think of it,” he replied.
Didnt think of it. The worst part of those words? It wasnt anger, nor sorrow… it was indifference. He hadnt seen fit to tell me. Forgotten. The thought had never crossed his mind.
Yet I had given up everything for him. The nights spent at his bedside when he was ill. The heavy shopping bags when money was tight. I washed, cooked, worked late so his life might be a little easier. Never once did I let myself falter.
And he… he married. Without me. Without even imagining his mother might grieve. That she would sit alone in this empty flat, turning old photographs in her hands, wondering: did I ever matter?
Now I ask myself: had I not called, would he have told me at all? Would he have carried on as though nothing had happened?
He left. Silence settled between us. I did not accuse him. No shouting, no scene. I simply let go.
Perhaps there comes a time when every parent must accept their child has grown. And that there is no longer a place for them in his life. But I never thought it would hurt so much.
Life reminds us, sometimes, that love does not guarantee gratitude… and that one must learn to love without expecting anything in return.
