Recognition.
Respect.
Love.
I nodded politely.
“Thank you.”
Bianca lingered several feet behind Damien.
Her expression was tight, but she eventually stepped forward.
“I didn’t realize Michael would feel that strongly.”
Patricia muttered, “That’s because you never asked.”
I touched her arm gently.
Bianca looked at me.
“I suppose I owe you an apology too.”
I considered her for a moment.
For years, she had acted as though motherhood could be measured by who hosted nicer parties or posted better photos online.
But motherhood wasn’t any of those things.
It was exhaustion.
Sacrifice.
Quiet persistence.
And no one could take that from me.
“I accept your apology,” I said. “But I hope you understand something.”
She waited.
“You can marry a man. You can share his home. But you cannot replace the woman who carried his child and loved him every day of his life.”
Bianca lowered her eyes.
“I understand.”
Michael stepped between us, smiling.
“Can we take pictures now?”
That broke the tension.
We laughed.
Patricia handed him the bouquet of sunflowers.
And then the photographer captured a series of images I would treasure forever.
Michael in his cap and gown.
Michael hugging me.
Michael standing between me and Patricia, each of us crying and laughing at once.
In every picture, his arm was wrapped tightly around my shoulders.
