The champagne flute trembled in my hand, and I set it down on the white linen tablecloth before anyone could notice. Sixty-eight years old, and my hands still betrayed me when I was nervous. I smoothed the navy dress I’d bought specifically for this occasion—the nicest thing in my closet, purchased on sale three months ago when the wedding invitation arrived.
It had seemed elegant in the department store mirror, but here, surrounded by women in designer gowns that cost more than my monthly pension, it felt painfully inadequate. The wedding coordinator approached me with the kind of smile people reserve for unwelcome obligations. She was young, probably in her late twenties, with the glossy perfection that money could buy and that I’d never possessed even in my youth.
“Mrs. Patterson? We’re ready to seat you now.”
I followed her down the endless center aisle of the Ashworth estate’s grand ballroom, acutely aware of the hundreds of eyes tracking my progress.
The whispers started almost immediately, rippling through the assembled guests like wind through wheat fields. I kept my gaze forward, my chin up, trying to maintain whatever dignity I could salvage from this moment. “Row twelve, seat fifteen,” the coordinator announced, gesturing toward the very back of the venue.
Behind the photographers. Behind the catering staff setting up champagne stations. So far back that I could barely see the flower-draped altar where my son would soon be married.
As I made the long walk to my assigned seat, I passed rows of Denver’s social elite. Women dripping in jewelry that could fund a teacher’s retirement. Men whose custom suits probably cost what I used to earn in a month.
The kind of people who measured worth in stock portfolios and country club memberships rather than the lives touched or the students taught. A woman in an elaborate fascinator leaned toward her companion, her voice pitched just loud enough for me to hear. “That’s Brandon’s mother.
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