I Paid His Down Payment, But My Son Thanked His Stepmom Instead Chapter 01

On my son’s wedding day, I sat at the last table at the reception.

His father sat at the family table near the dance floor with his new wife.

Later, when the bride and groom thanked their parents, the MC would ask both sets of parents to stand and accept the guests’ applause.

“And now the family’s finally complete,” the MC said.

I joined the other guests in applauding.

The woman next to me asked whose side I was on.

Before I could answer, my son walked over.

“Mom, it’s packed today. When the MC asks the parents to stand, don’t get up, okay?”

“Tamsin’s not feeling well. If you stand up too, it’ll upset her.”

I nodded and handed him the gift bag I’d prepared.

“It’s fine. Go do your thing.”

But he didn’t leave.

“Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

I’d been saying it for years.

At first, I’d said it because I didn’t want him caught between parents.

Later, I’d said it because I no longer knew what else to say.

Before the reception ended, I received a move-in notice from the retirement community.

I replied: [I’ll be there tomorrow.]

—

My son Rourke followed me out, saying his father wanted to drive me home.

I waved him off and got into the car I’d called ahead of time.

That was the last time I’d ever sit at the last table of his life.

The car had traveled a long way before I finally looked back.

Rourke stood on the steps, seeing off the guests. The bottom button of his suit jacket was fastened wrong.

He’d always been like that—never could get his buttons right.

When he was little, I’d crouch in front of him and undo each button before fastening them all over again.

Eventually, someone else took over that job.

Earlier, back in the hall, Tamsin had stood on her tiptoes and fixed it for him.

He’d looked down at her with a smile.

“Tamsin, you’re the best. So thoughtful.”

The driver was a young guy. He glanced at me in the rearview mirror.

“Ma’am, were you at a wedding?”

“Yeah. My son got married.”

He looked surprised.

“So why’d you leave so early? Isn’t the groom’s mom supposed to be up at the family table?”

I said nothing.

There had been twelve people at the family table up front.

The bride and groom, the bride’s parents, his father, Tamsin, and her family.

Twelve seats, and not a single place card with my name on it.

My phone lit up with a message from Rourke.

[Mom, text me when you’re home.]

Another message popped up.

[Tamsin’s been crying all night. She feels awful about you sitting at the last table.]

[We’ve got more family stuff tonight, so don’t come by yet.]

I skipped over that message and replied with a word: [Home.]

The car was still on the interstate.

But I knew he’d be busy tonight—too busy to even open it again.

I didn’t want to give him one more thing to worry about.

I’d done that for him for years. It was all I had left to give.

My old house was on the east side of town. The hallway light was out, so I climbed five flights in the dark.

The place was almost empty.

I’d sold most of the furniture. Only a sofa remained, covered in a sheet of protective plastic.

By next Wednesday, after the sale closed, the house wouldn’t be mine anymore.

I sat down and rubbed my sore feet. That’s when I noticed the little box still in my bag.

Inside was a silver baby bracelet with his name engraved on it. I’d put it on him shortly after he was born.

In elementary school, he’d called it childish, taken it off, and shoved it in a drawer. Never worn it again.

I’d spent nights polishing it, planning to give it to him today—maybe someday he could pass it down to his own kid.

But throughout the entire reception, I hadn’t found a single chance to hand it to him.

Never mind.

I put the box back in my bag.

A crayon drawing was still stuck to the refrigerator door. The paper had yellowed with age.

Three little figures holding hands. The shortest one in the middle, with crooked letters above it: [Me and Mom and Dad.]

He’d drawn it when he was seven.

The mother in the picture wore a dress, and her smiling face was enormous.