THREE WEEKS BEFORE HER WEDDING, MY DAUGHTER ASKED ME NOT TO COME BECAUSE SHE WAS AFRAID I’D EMBARRASS HER—THEN THE GROOM SAW ME IN THE LAST PEW AND WALKED AWAY FROM THE ALTAR
I raised Sophie alone after her father died when she was six.
For most of her childhood, there were only two of us.
I worked in the mortgage department of a credit union in Bellmere.
I packed school lunches before sunrise.
Learned how to stretch one paycheck across school shoes, doctor visits, field trips, broken appliances, birthday gifts, and every other emergency childhood could invent.
We never had much money.
Sophie knew that.
But I believed she also knew something more important.
She was loved.
Completely.
When she was little, she used to crawl into my bed on Saturday mornings and announce:
“Mom, when I’m rich, I’m buying you a giant house.”
“How giant?”
“Two kitchens.”
I laughed.
“Why would I want two kitchens?”
“And no bills.”
“That part I’ll take.”
Back then, Sophie told me everything.
In college, she called almost every day.
Then during her junior year—
she met Adrian.
THE BOYFRIEND I NEVER MET
“He’s smart, Mom.”
“How smart?”
“Annoyingly smart.”
“Then I already dislike him.”
She laughed.
“No, you don’t. You’d love him.”
Naturally, I assumed I’d meet Adrian within a few weeks.
I didn’t.
A month passed.
Then three.
Then six.
Every time I asked, there was another reason.
