Three weeks before her wedding, my daughter asked me not to come because she was afraid I might embarrass her. I stayed away like she asked. At least, I meant to. Then the groom saw me sitting in the last pew, went completely pale, and walked away from my daughter at the altar.
I raised Lauren alone after her father died when she was six.
For most of her childhood, it was just us. I worked in the mortgage department of a credit union, packed lunches before sunrise, and learned how to stretch one paycheck across every emergency a growing child could produce.
She used to call me every day in college.
Lauren knew we were not rich.
She also knew she was loved.
At least, I thought she did.
When she was little, she used to crawl into my bed on Saturday mornings and announce that when she grew up, she was going to buy me a house with “two kitchens and no bills.” I never had the heart to tell her one kitchen was already enough work.
Then, during her junior year, she met Ethan.
At first, I heard everything.
“He’s smart, Mom.”
“How smart?”
“Annoyingly smart.”
“Then I already dislike him.”
She laughed.
“No, you don’t. You’d love him.”
I expected to meet Ethan within a month.
Every time I asked, Lauren had a reason.
