But my son, Noah, found it on the counter and asked quietly, “Are we really invited?”
I told him yes.
He stared at the envelope for a while before saying, “I want to go.”
“Why?” I asked.
He shrugged slightly. “I want to see if he acts different when we’re there.”
No ten-year-old should sound that old.
But I said yes.
The wedding was exactly what Ethan always wanted—polished, expensive, performative. White roses everywhere. A string quartet. Guests dressed for photos, not comfort.
His bride, Lila, was younger, perfectly styled, smiling like she believed she had won something.
Noah stood beside me during the ceremony in a navy blazer, quiet and observant. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t complain. Just watched.
I should have known then something was coming.
At the reception, we were placed at a back table with distant relatives and coworkers who knew exactly who I was but avoided eye contact. I kept my composure, focusing on Noah as he ate slowly, like he was conserving energy.
Then came the speeches.
