As my son tied the knot, I concealed the million-dollar inheritance I’d received from my late husband. Thank heavens I kept it under wraps, because just days after the ceremony, my daughter-in-law appeared with a notary in tow….

The tag just said, Sylvia Hartley. No mention of mother of the groom. No little ribbon like the bride’s family had.

I held it in my hand a moment, then clipped it on. Inside the main room, people were gathering in clusters. Laughter floated above the soft music.

Waiters moved through with trays of champagne and little spoons of something chilled and expensive. I spotted Owen near the front with Lauren surrounded by people I didn’t recognize. He didn’t see me right away.

One of the planners, a young man in tight slacks and a headset, waved me toward a table near the back corner. I looked around. The closer tables had signs.

Groom’s co-workers. Bride’s extended family. Maid of Honor’s parents.

My card just said Sylvia. No last name. No title.

I sat down between a man who sold home insurance and a woman who raised alpacas in Vermont. Both were polite. Neither had ever met Owen.

They talked across me most of the night. During the toast, the microphone passed to Lauren’s father, her brother, then her college roommate. There was a joke about tequila shots and a memory from summer camp.

At one point, someone asked when the groom’s mom would speak. Lauren laughed and said maybe later, then moved on. When dinner came, it was plated and quiet.

I had the chicken. It was dry. A butter roll sat untouched on the side.

I noticed no one at my table finished their meal either. The desserts were fancier than they looked. One bite of the lemon tart and I felt more bitter than sweet.

Owen never made it to my table. Not once. He danced with Lauren, then with her mom, then with someone’s aunt.

I waited, fixed the hem of my dress three times, smiled at a photographer who passed me twice without raising his camera. By the end of the night, I sat quietly in that rented chair, surrounded by empty plates and people already halfway to their cars. I folded my napkin slowly, slipped it under the rim of my glass.

No one said goodbye. No one noticed when I left. A week passed after the wedding before Owen called.

He said he wanted to have me over for dinner, just the two of us. Said Lauren would be out with friends. His voice was cheerful but measured.

I could tell he was trying to sound casual. I told him I’d be there, no questions asked. That evening, I wore the same cardigan I had on when I first brought Owen home from the hospital.

It still fit soft around the wrists. I baked a tray of oatmeal cookies and wrapped them in foil. The drive down was quiet.

The roads were dry, the sky overcast in that flat gray way that makes you feel like winter isn’t finished, even when the calendar says otherwise. Owen’s new house sat in a tidy neighborhood on the edge of town. Brick exterior, trimmed hedges, the kind of place with matching porch lights and a doorbell camera.

He opened the door with a smile, quick and polite. Gave me a short hug that barely touched the shoulders. Said the kitchen was through the hall…