“You’re a waitress from a one-bedroom apartment in a bad part of town. You don’t fit into the life we’re building.”
The words hung in the air between us like smoke.
Sloan Montgomery stood in her wedding dress, all white silk and diamonds catching the afternoon light through the glass doors of Willowbrook Country Club. Her blue eyes were cold as January ice.
Behind her, I could hear the string quartet playing something classical—expensive, the kind of music people like me weren’t supposed to understand.
I’m Rossamund Walsh, 67 years old, standing in my navy dress from Macy’s clearance rack, holding a purse I’d owned for 12 years.
My son Corbin was getting married today, except my name wasn’t on the guest list.
Hi viewers, kindly tell us where you’re watching from and what time it is.
Sloan adjusted one of her gloves—real silk, probably the kind that cost more than my monthly rent.
“Corbin and I decided together who belongs here. People who fit into our lives.
People who add value.”
My throat felt tight. The champagne smell drifting from inside made my stomach turn.
“I’m his mother.”
“You’re a waitress.”
She said it like the word tasted bad in her mouth.
“Corbin’s moving up in the world now.
He’s joining my family’s business.
We have a certain standard to maintain.”
The floor shifted under my feet. Twenty-five years of double shifts at Henderson’s diner. Twenty-five years of bleeding into my shoes every night so he could have piano lessons, college tuition, a future I’d never have.
All of it leading to this moment—standing outside my own son’s wedding like a stranger.
“Does Corbin know you’re saying this to me?”
“Corbin knows everything.”
Sloan tilted her head.
“Why do you think your name isn’t on the list?
He’s grateful for what you did when he was young. He really is.
But that part of his life is over now. Time to move forward.”
Behind me, someone laughed—a sharp sound that cut through the music.
The valet was watching us.
So was the woman at the coat check. Everyone seeing the waitress mother get put in her place.
“I want to hear this from him.”
“He’s busy. It’s his wedding day.”
Sloan turned to go, then paused.
“You should be proud.
Your job is done.”
She smiled, small, satisfied.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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