I stood at the back of the glittering ballroom, tugging at the sleeves of my suit that never fit quite right. My son’s wedding day. For twenty years, I had dreamed of this moment, ever since his mother walked out and left me to raise him alone. I worked two jobs—fixing pipes by day, delivering groceries by night. We went without heat some winters, but Jason never went hungry. I showed up at every school play, every parent-teacher conference, every scraped-knee emergency. He was my world.
Now here he was, grown into a man, standing tall under crystal chandeliers, smiling with the bride’s family as photographers snapped away. The champagne flowed, the band played softly, and the towering wedding cake gleamed under the lights. I wasn’t used to this kind of extravagance, but I didn’t care. I was proud—prouder than any man alive.
