**Diary Entry**
My stepsons fiancée told me only “real mothers” deserve to sit at the frontbut my boy proved her wrong.
When I married my husband, Christopher was just six. His mum had left when he was fourno calls, no letters, just gone one cold February night. My husband, Mark, was shattered. We met about a year later, both trying to piece our lives back together. When we married, it wasnt just about usit was about Christopher 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 him peanut butter sandwiches, helped with science projects, and drove him to A&E at 2 AM when he spiked a fever. I cheered at every school play and shouted 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 sure he knew he could count on me.
When Mark died suddenly of a stroke before Christopher turned 16, I was devastated. Id lost my partner, my best friend. But even in grief, I knew one thingI wasnt going anywhere.
From then on, I raised him alone. No blood ties. No family inheritance. Just love and loyalty.
I watched him grow into a fine young 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, tears of pride streaming down my face.
So when he told me hed proposed to a girl named Madeleine, 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, a colour he once said reminded him of home. In my purse was a small velvet box.
Inside were silver cufflinks engraved: *”The boy I raised. The man Im proud of.”*
Not expensivejust my heart in a box.
As I walked in, I saw flowers, a string quartet tuning up, and the wedding planner nervously checking her clipboard.
Then Madeleine approached.
She looked stunning. Polished. Perfect. Her dress fit 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. “I wouldnt miss it.”
She hesitated. Her gaze flicked over my hands, then back to my face. Then she added:
“Just a small notethe front rows reserved for real mothers. Im sure you understand.”
It took a second to sink in. Maybe she meant family tradition, seating charts. But then I saw itthe tight smile, the calculated politeness. She meant exactly what she said.
*Only real mums.*
The ground tilted beneath me.
The planner glanced overshed heard. One of the bridesmaids shifted uncomfortably. No one said a word.
I swallowed. “Of course,” I replied, forcing a smile. “I understand.”
I walked to the very back of the chapel, knees trembling. I clutched the little box like it could hold me together.
The music began. Guests turned. The procession started. Everyone looked so joyful.
Then Christopher stepped into the aisle.
Handsomeso grown-up in his navy suit, calm and steady. But as he walked, his eyes scanned the rows. Left, rightthen they landed on me, at the back.
He stopped.
His face changedfirst confusion. Then understanding. He glanced toward the front, where Madeleines mother sat smugly.
Then he turned and walked straight to me, took my hand, and his eyes said everything I needed to hear.
