I always imagined walking my daughter down the aisle, not watching her say “I do” through a pixelated livestream. But when Clara’s email arrived—telling me her Paris wedding was too “intimate” for me to attend in person—I didn’t argue. I simply replied, “Have a wonderful day.”
What she didn’t know? I’d already paid for that dream venue.
The $25,000 transfer had been a gift, but when I canceled the additional $10,000 for her dress and flowers, I made one small change to the reservation: adding myself as the “primary guest.” The venue’s manager confirmed it—contracts don’t lie.
Clara called the night before, furious. “This is supposed to be private!” she hissed. I kept my voice steady: “I paid to be there. So I’ll be there.”
At the ceremony, I sat quietly among strangers. But when the emcee called me for a toast, I didn’t hesitate. “Life changes us,” I said, microphone in hand, “but I’ll always be your mother. And I’ll always show up—invited or not.”
The silence that followed was louder than applause.
