Plopped down at the kitchen table like old times, flipping through pages and circling favorites. It felt good. It felt like we were okay.
That moment, just her and me in our safe bubble of plans and giggles, I held onto it. Tightly. Not knowing it would be the last time she asked me for my opinion.
After that, something shifted. I told myself it was just stress. Every bride gets overwhelmed, right? But the calls came less often.
Our weekly coffee dates turned into maybe next week. Her texts got shorter, clipped, practical. Still, I didn’t push.
I gave her space. I figured she’d come back around like she always did. But somewhere deep in my gut, I knew.
There was a moment, small but unmistakable, when I realized something was changing. It was a Sunday. Ivy had invited me to brunch with Caleb’s parents at this trendy little cafe downtown.
I showed up in a soft blue blouse she used to love hair curled, trying not to look like I was trying too hard. They were already seated when I arrived. Caleb stood to greet me.
Ivy didn’t. Mom, she said flat. You made it.
Not cold, but distant. Like I was someone she had to include, not someone she wanted there. I smiled through it.
Wouldn’t miss it. We sat. The server brought menus.
I asked if they had vegetarian options, just something light. Caleb’s mother, Judith, scoffed. Oh, another one.
Ivy laughed, nervously, but didn’t say anything. I brushed it off. Didn’t want to make a scene.
I was just happy to be there, you know. Caleb mentioned they had just finalized the guest list. I perked up.
Did you decide on a florist yet? I asked, pulling a pamphlet from my purse. One of my former students started a flower business. Her arrangements are stunning.
We’ve got it under control, Ivy said, cutting me off. Her voice was sharp. Final.
The smile froze on my face. The pamphlet in my hand suddenly felt ridiculous. I was just, I know she said, not unkind, but firm.
But it’s really something we’ve already figured out. The table went quiet. Caleb looked down at his plate.
Judith raised an eyebrow and sipped her mimosa. I folded the pamphlet back into my purse. My cheeks burned, but I smiled.
Laughed a little like I didn’t care. Of course, I said. But inside, something cracked.
Not because of what she said, but how fast she dismissed me. Like my excitement was embarrassing. Like I was stepping into a role I no longer had permission to play.
That night, I sat on my couch and replayed it over and over. The way she cut me off. The way no one at the table flinched.
It wasn’t just a misstep. It was a shift. After that brunch, things didn’t return to normal.
In fact, they got quieter. Not the kind of quiet that comes from being busy. Not the everyday quiet that life sometimes hands us.
This was different. This was the kind of quiet that makes you feel like you’re being slowly erased. Like someone’s drawing a chalk outline around where you used to be.
The calls stopped. The texts. One word replies.
No more love you at the end of our conversations. It happened slowly, so slowly, I could almost convince myself I was imagining it. But a mother knows.
Even when she pretends not to, she knows. I kept trying, gently. I sent her a picture of my old wedding veil lace, soft as breath passed down through three generations.
I asked, would you want this as your something old? She didn’t reply for three days. And when she did, it was short. Going with something different.
No thanks. No warmth. Just a period.
I offered to help with the invitations handwrite the addresses like we used to do for holiday cards. She replied, already handled. I suggested hosting a small gathering for her college friends.
A relaxed thing. Backyard lights, lemonade, laughter. It’s not really the vibe we’re going for, she said with a smile that didn’t touch her eyes.
That smile. I still remember it. Polite.
Distant. Like I was a guest in her life. One day, I stopped by her apartment with a small basket.
Homemade cookies, some chamomile tea, and a box of little memories, pressed flowers from a trip we took when she was six. A drawing she made of us when she was in kindergarten. Our hands holding each other in crayon.
Caleb answered the door. He looked surprised, hesitant. She’s not really feeling up to visitors right now.
He said, not unkindly. I offered to leave the basket. He nodded.
The box came back to me a week later. Untouched. The silence didn’t show up all at once.
It crept in like fog, settling in the corners of every room in my house. Until one day, I realized I hadn’t had a real conversation with my daughter in over a month. No wedding updates.
No mom, what do you think? No warmth. Just distance. Cold, intentional distance.
I kept making excuses. She’s overwhelmed. She’s leaning on Caleb’s side more.
Maybe Judith’s saying things, but deep down, I was starting to worry. Not just about the wedding. About us.
About what was slipping between our fingers. I began questioning myself. Had I been too much, too involved? Had I overstepped? I replayed every moment from the past year like a detective with a red pen, trying to figure out where I’d gone wrong.
Some nights, I’d cry in the dark door closed, the sound muffled by my pillow. Not because of what was happening, but because I couldn’t understand why it was happening. I didn’t tell my friends.
Didn’t tell my sister. Because I knew what they’d say. That’s just how daughters are.
But it had never been this way, not with us. We were close. We were us.
And now, I didn’t even recognize her. The worst part wasn’t being left out. It was being rewritten.
A mutual friend mentioned offhand that Ivy had said my mom’s just not part of this season of my life. That sentence, it cut like glass. As if I had chosen to step back.
As if I had volunteered to become irrelevant. I went from being her anchor to being a ghost. But I kept pretending.
When people asked about the wedding, I smiled. Said, she’s glowing, so happy. I still bought gifts, candles, slippers, little things she might like.