After years of sacrifice, Susan is finally ready to reclaim joy and walk the aisle again. But when betrayal comes from the one person she never expected, her wedding day takes a devastating turn. This is a story about boundaries, bravery, and the quiet power of finally choosing yourself.
There are two kinds of mothers in the world: the ones who keep score, and the ones who give until there is absolutely nothing left. I’ve always been the latter. For nearly 30 years, I was married to Richard.
He died in a freak workplace accident, leaving me with a mortgage, a teenage daughter, and a heart so broken I could barely breathe through some mornings. That was 15 years ago. After Richard’s death, my world narrowed.
The grief was a quiet, cruel thing that crept into my shoes and made every step feel heavier. I went back to work at the local grocery store within a week of the funeral. I stocked shelves and scrubbed floors.
By noon, my knees ached and my fingers stung from the cold room. But it paid. Barely.
My daughter, Clara, was 15.
She was all teenage attitude and restless ambition. She needed so much: new shoes, lunch money, a glitch-free phone, among everything else. I told myself that it was only temporary.
I told myself that she needed me to be strong. I needed… nothing.
Or so I said aloud. “Mom, can I get this dress for homecoming?” she asked once when we were shopping, holding up a pale pink dress that I knew we couldn’t afford. I glanced at the price tag.
It was too much, of course. Still, I smiled. “Of course, honey,” I said.
“But let’s try it on first!”
I skipped lunch that week and returned a new pair of boots I’d bought for work to pay for it. Over the years, that pattern remained. I wore the same coat for three winters.
I cut my own hair with dull scissors. I told myself every sacrifice was worth it, because she was happy. Clara grew up.
She moved out. She married a sweet man named Matt. He was kind, quiet, and always looked like he hadn’t slept.
Despite everything, he still called me “ma’am,” polite as ever. He never said much when Clara raised her voice at me, but more than once, I caught him glancing at the floor, jaw tight, like he wanted to speak but didn’t know how. They had three kids, Ethan, Chloe, and little Rosie.
When Clara’s responsibilities at work grew, she started calling. “Mom, can you take the kids? Just for an hour, okay?” she’d ask.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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