My Daughter Wrote… “Mom, Don’t Come. My Husband Doesn’t Want You At The Wedding”… So I…
The first message came in before I had even finished my morning tea. I was standing at my kitchen window in Charleston, South Carolina, watching the morning light slide across the narrow backyards on Gordon Street.
The kettle whistled, the old refrigerator hummed, and somewhere down the block a dog barked at a garbage truck. It was an ordinary Saturday morning in a life that had taught me to love ordinary things. Then my phone buzzed.
The screen lit up with a number I recognized from Lena’s wedding planning group chat. The venue is demanding final payment. Did you not sponsor the honeymoon?
Steam curled above my mug as I poured hot water over a tea bag. Before I could answer, another message flashed on the screen. Why isn’t the mother of the bride here?
A third followed so quickly that the vibration rattled the spoon against the ceramic. This one had a video attached. I pressed play with a thumb that suddenly didn’t feel steady.
The image was grainy, shot from across the ballroom. A wedding coordinator paced back and forth, waving a clipboard at someone just off frame. My daughter, Lena Ellery Caro, rubbed her forehead hard with the heel of her hand, the way she used to do in high school when math homework made her cry.
Beside her, her husband, Darren, stood stiff in his tux, jaw clenched, hands slicing the air as he argued. Even through the blur, even through the bad lighting and the chaos of people setting tables and adjusting floral arches, I could tell they were talking about money. My phone buzzed again.
Maris, please respond. They said you promised a transfer. I, Maris Ellery, seventy-two years old, retired electrician, and the woman who raised Lena alone after her father died, stood in the middle of my small renovated house, tea forgotten, heartbeat suddenly loud in my ears.
It felt like the walls had leaned in, like the whole house was waiting for my answer. But I did not reply. Instead, I sat down at the small kitchen table Rowan had once sanded by hand and pulled my reading glasses from my cardigan pocket.
My fingers weren’t as quick as they used to be. The joints in my knuckles ached on rainy days now. But the habit of solving problems with my hands was still there.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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