The invitation arrived on a Tuesday in March. Cream-colored cardstock with gold embossing that probably cost more per piece than I spent on groceries in a week. Mr. and Mrs. Ryan Richardson request the honor of your presence.
I had to read it twice before I realized my son was getting married, and I was being informed. Not consulted. No phone call.
No visit. Just an invitation in the mail like I was a distant relative they felt obligated to include. I set it on my kitchen counter next to the stack of past due notices and stared at it for a long time.
Ryan was 28 now, successful in his tech job, living in a downtown loft that cost more in monthly rent than I made in six months at the insurance office. He’d been with Barbara for three years, and I’d met her exactly twice. Both times brief, awkward encounters where she looked at my small apartment and my discount store clothes with the kind of polite disgust wealthy people perfect.
The wedding was set for June 15th, a Saturday, at the country club where Barbara’s family held membership and where, I was certain, I would stick out like a grass stain on white linen. I called Ryan that evening. Oh, hey mom.
His voice had that distracted quality it always carried when he talked to me, like he was simultaneously checking emails or scrolling through his phone. You got the invitation. I did.
Congratulations, honey. Barbara seems lovely. A pause.
Yeah, she is. Listen, about the wedding. I’m so happy for you both.
When would be a good time to help with planning? I know these things can be expensive, and I’ve been saving. Mom, stop. His voice sharpened.
We don’t need help. Barbara’s parents are handling everything. It’s all taken care of.
I’m not talking about money, Ryan. I’m talking about being involved. Mother-son dance, helping choose flowers, tasting cake.
We’ve already done all that. Look, just show up on the day, okay? Wear something nice but not too, you know, conservative. Barbara’s family is pretty traditional.
Something nice but not too me. I understood perfectly. Of course, I said.
My voice steady despite the familiar ache spreading through my chest. I wouldn’t want to embarrass anyone. It’s not about embarrassing.
Never mind. I have to go. Barbara’s making dinner.
The line went dead, and I sat in my silent apartment, staring at the invitation. In the corner, in small print, it said, black tie optional. I had never owned anything that could pass for black tie.
My one decent dress was navy blue and five years old, purchased for Ryan’s college graduation. Over the next three months, I saved every penny I could. I skipped meals, walked to work instead of taking the bus, cancelled my cable subscription.
By May, I had enough to buy a dress that wouldn’t humiliate my son on his wedding day. Deep emerald green, simple but elegant, from a department store that was several steps up from my usual thrift shop finds. I even splurged on new shoes and had my graying hair professionally styled for the first time in years.
I wanted to look like I belonged, like I was worthy of being Ryan’s mother. The morning of the wedding, I stood in front of my bathroom mirror and barely recognized myself. The woman staring back looked polished, dignified.
For a moment, I let myself imagine Ryan’s face when he saw me, maybe a flicker of pride, a moment where he introduced me to his in-laws without that subtle wince I’d grown accustomed to. The country club sat on perfectly manicured grounds that rolled toward a small lake. Luxury cars lined the circular drive.
BMWs, Mercedes, a few Teslas. My 15-year-old Honda Civic, freshly washed but still obviously ancient, looked like it had wandered into the wrong zip code. Inside, the lobby gleamed with marble and crystal.
Guests mingled in clusters, their laughter echoing off high ceilings. The women wore designer dresses and jewelry that caught the light with every movement. The men had the relaxed confidence that comes with never having to check your bank balance before making a purchase.
I spotted Ryan near the main staircase, resplendent in his black tuxedo, his dark hair perfectly styled. He was laughing at something Barbara’s father was saying, his head thrown back in genuine amusement. Barbara stood beside him in a wedding dress that probably cost more than my annual salary, radiant and perfect.
They looked like they belonged in a magazine spread. I made my way over, my new shoes clicking against the marble floor. As I approached, Ryan’s gaze found mine, and for just a moment, his smile faltered, not with recognition or warmth, but with something that looked disturbingly like resignation.
Mom, he said, his voice carefully neutral. You made it. You look so handsome, I said, reaching up to straighten his bow tie, a gesture I’d done a thousand times when he was younger.
But now he stepped back slightly, just enough to break the contact. Thanks. You look nice.
The pause before nice lasted just long enough to sting. Barbara’s father, a distinguished man with silver hair and a golf tan, extended his hand. You must be Ryan’s mother.
Tom Whitmore. Catherine Morris, I replied, shaking his hand. Congratulations on gaining such a wonderful son-in-law.
Indeed. His smile was polite but distant. Ryan tells us you work in insurance.
I do. Data entry mostly. I had learned not to oversell my modest position, but today I’m just the proud mother of the groom.