At my son’s luxury wedding, they put me in row 14 right beside the service area. The bride leaned in and whispered, ‘Please… don’t make us look bad today.’ Then a man in a black suit sat next to me and murmured, ‘Let’s pretend we came together.’ When my son looked down and saw us, his face went pale.
“You’ll be in row fourteen, next to the service area,” the coordinator droned, barely looking up from her clipboard, while my daughter-in-law smiled coldly. “My family will lose face if your poverty shows,” Camille said under her breath, still smiling for the guests. My son lowered his head and stayed silent. No defense, not…
