nched, sloshing his amber drink, and turned around.
“Dad.” His smile was brittle, his eyes darting nervously to his friends.
I closed the distance, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him. “Your mother is running on fumes. You need to come to the table and sit with her for ten minutes. Give her some grace.”
Lucas shifted his weight, his gaze deliberately avoiding mine, focusing instead on a passing waiter. “Dad, come on. Half the state’s congressional district is in this room. I have to network. I have obligations.”
“She gave you life, Lucas,” I said, the ice creeping into my tone. “She is your paramount obligation.”
He let out a heavy, exasperated sigh. Before he could formulate an excuse, one of Jennifer’s groomsmen—a kid named Preston with a jawline sharper than his intellect—leaned into our airspace.
“Hey, Mr. Harrison,” Preston drawled, swirling the ice in his scotch. “I saw your wife from across the room. She looks completely fine. Honestly, she’s a trooper just for showing up.”
Another groomsman chuckled, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper that wasn’t nearly quiet enough. “To be brutally honest, I’m genuinely shocked she didn’t just stay home. After all the dramatic hospital stints… it’s kind of a buzzkill vibe, you know?”
I felt my heart rate slow down to a steady, lethal rhythm. My hands curled into loose fists at my sides. I waited for Lucas to react. I waited for my son, the boy I taught to throw a baseball and respect his elders, to slam his drink down and demand an apology from the spoiled aristocrat who just insulted his dying mother.
Lucas just stared at his scotch. He didn’t offer a single syllable of defense.
In that pathetic silence, the truth clicked into place. My son had completely surrendered his moral compass. He was desperately trying to solidify his rank among these people, and the path of least resistance was to let them trample over the woman who raised him.
I didn’t say another word. I turned my back on the coward at the bar and marched back to our isolated table.
Mary was sitting exactly where I left her, her spine rigid, her hands folded, radiating a quiet dignity the rest of the room could never comprehend. I sat down heavily beside her, the sour taste of betrayal coating my tongue.
A sharp screech of microphone feedback suddenly pierced the ambient noise of the reception.
Jennifer was standing on the elevated wooden stage near the band, a wireless microphone clutched in her manicured hand. The room fell into a hushed, expectant silence.
“Thank you all for being here today to witness our love story,” she projected, her smile blinding under the stage lights. The crowd offered a polite ripple of applause. “Family is the absolute foundation of my life. So, I thought it would be incredibly touching if Lucas’s mother came up here to share a few words of wisdom with us.”
The entire ballroom pivoted. Hundreds of pairs of eyes locked onto our table.
My stomach plummeted. Mary froze. We hadn’t been briefed on any speeches. We were explicitly told earlier that only the Best Man and the Maid of Honor would be taking the microphone. This was an unscripted deviation.
Jennifer’s voice echoed again, maintaining its sugary tone, but I could hear the razor blade hidden inside it. “I am absolutely positive Mrs. Mary has a wealth of thoughts she’d just love to share with the crowd.”
Mary looked at me, her eyes wide with a sudden, spiking panic.
