It was a little too tight, a little too formal, but I needed something that didn’t scream single mom trying too hard. I tugged at the fabric, turned side to side, and told myself it looked okay. Noah walked in while I was checking my makeup.
You look like a movie star, he said, eyes wide. I smiled, even though I didn’t believe him. Thanks, baby, I said, brushing his hair down gently.
You’re my favorite hype man. I remember the drive to the venue, Noah humming in the back seat, asking if Uncle Liam was nervous. I laughed and said, probably.
Weddings are scary. I didn’t say what I was really thinking. Family is scarier.
Liam and I were close once. He’s five years younger than me, and I practically helped raise him when our dad left. I used to help him with homework, cover for him when he snuck out, and hold his hand during thunderstorms.
For years, it felt like it was just the two of us against the world. But that changed when he met Emily. She was polished, poised, the kind of woman who walks into a room and makes you feel like you need to apologize for existing.
I tried to be kind when he introduced us, I really did. But she made it clear from day one, I wasn’t her type of people. She once told me at a family dinner, it’s so inspiring that you’re doing this all on your own.
In that tone, people use when they want you to know they’re above you but pretending not to be. My mom loved her immediately. I could see it in the way she leaned in when Emily talked, how she laughed at every story, even the boring ones.
Janice had never looked at me that way. With me, she was always stiff, judgmental, like I was a reminder of all the things she didn’t wanna see in herself. I used to think I was just being sensitive.
That wedding proved otherwise. The venue was beautiful, white roses everywhere, soft violin music floating in the air, candlelight flickering off gold-rimmed glasses. Everyone was dressed like they’d stepped out of a magazine.
And then there was me, trying not to wrinkle my dress every time I sat down, adjusting the one pair of heels I owned, praying Noah wouldn’t spill anything on his little shirt and tie. He looked so proud, though. Do I look grown up? He asked, adjusting his collar.
You look like the man of the hour, I told him, and I meant it. As the night went on, I smiled, nodded, made small talk. I laughed at jokes I didn’t find funny.
I held my head high, even when I caught a few glances from Emily’s friends. I was surviving. Until that mic moment happened, and everything I had held together, my composure, my pride, my years of pretending, came crashing down.
The laughter felt like daggers. And in that moment, I saw something in Noah’s eyes that changed everything. Not fear, not confusion, but protection.
He wasn’t gonna let them laugh at me, not without saying something. So he stood up and walked toward the stage. And I, I just sat there, holding my breath.
My heart dropped as I watched Noah walk toward the stage. At first, I thought he was just confused. Maybe going to get a napkin, or follow the sound of the music, or, God, I don’t even know, I hoped he’d just come back to the table, that this whole moment would pass.
That somehow I could melt into my chair, and pretend I hadn’t just been humiliated in front of 100 people. But he kept walking, slow, purposeful, each little step tapping across the glossy wood floor like a countdown. I couldn’t stop.
People started to notice. A few turned in their seats. Someone whispered, is that her kid? I could feel every stare slicing across my skin.
I stood up halfway, reaching out like maybe I could call him back without making a scene. Noah, I hissed, my voice tight, barely audible. Come back here.