When I arrived at the banquet hall, an usher led me to the very last row. I thought it was a mistake — until I saw the shame in my son Mateo’s eyes.
“Mom… the front is for Clara’s family,” he whispered.
I sat quietly, hurt, until the man beside me greeted me warmly. It was Adrián — my first love from over twenty years ago, now a powerful businessman. We spoke softly, reconnecting as if no time had passed.
Mateo kept glancing nervously toward us, not because he cared about me, but because he recognized Adrián Vega, the successful owner of the building Mateo managed. Minute by minute, it became painfully clear: my son was ashamed of me.
When lunch ended, Mateo approached — polite only because others were watching. The moment he realized who Adrián was, he tried to introduce me as if I were barely part of his life.
“She’s… the lady who raised me,” he said.
My heart broke. Adrián placed a steady hand on my shoulder.
“No, Mateo. This is Isabel — one of the most honest and dignified women I’ve met.”
Then, to my horror, he took the microphone and addressed the room. He spoke about dignity, character, and how I was seated in the back when I deserved the front. The guests applauded; Mateo reddened with humiliation.
Later, Clara confessed to me that Mateo had even offered her father his loyalty in exchange for distancing himself from “certain family obligations.” Me.
As we spoke, an argument erupted across the room. Mateo was shouting at Adrián.
“He exposed me!”
“It wasn’t about you,” Adrián said calmly. “It was about how you treated your mother.”
Clara stepped in, furious.
“If you treat your mother like this, what will you do to me when I don’t fit your image?”
Then came the final blow: Clara’s father told Mateo not to return to work until his position was reevaluated. The building belonged to Vega now — and Vega had witnessed everything.
Mateo turned to me, frightened and speechless.
“Mom, I—”
“Respect isn’t demanded,” I told him gently. “It’s earned.”
By the end of the night, the wedding had lost its shine. Adrián stayed by my side, speaking to me with the same warmth he had decades ago.
Before driving me home, he said softly, “We should never have gotten lost. If you’re willing… I’d like to try again.”
After a day full of wounds, for the first time, I felt hope — not for what had ended, but for what might begin.
