“I belong wherever my children are,” she said. “Today, that’s enough.”
The ceremony was lovely. Ella floated down the aisle on her father’s arm, layers of white silk swirling around her. Mark looked at her as if she were the only person in the world. My mother cried quietly, dabbing at her eyes with a corner of a tissue.
Afterward, we moved into the reception hall. There was a big seating chart near the entrance, framed and decorated with greenery. Names were written in graceful calligraphy. I searched for ours. The bride and groom’s table had Mark and Ella, her parents, her godparents, and a couple whose names I recognized from conversations about her father’s business. My name was at a table labeled “Family Table Two,” near enough to the front that I could see the speeches clearly.
My mother’s name was all the way down at Table 8.
Table 8 was in the corner near the kitchen doors and the restrooms. It was a table for leftovers. Not leftover food, but leftover guests—distant cousins, an elderly couple from Ella’s side, two of Ella’s parents’ friends, and Linda Miller, mother of the groom.
I felt my face heat.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered.
“Claire,” my mother said softly. “Please.”
“You’re the groom’s mother,” I said. “You should be at the front, or at least near it. You paid for the rehearsal dinner. You helped with the photos. You’ve been there for everything.”
“It’s all right,” she said. “Sitting at the edge means I can see the whole room.”
Her eyes betrayed her. They looked wounded.
“Did you know you were here?” I asked.
She swallowed.
“They told me there were many people to fit,” she said. “They said it would be easier to put me with some of the older guests so they wouldn’t feel left out. I didn’t want to argue. It’s their day.”
“Someday,” I said, “they’ll realize what they did.”
She smiled sadly.
“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not. Either way, I’ll survive.”
She walked to Table 8 alone, smoothed her dress, and sat down. She introduced herself politely to the strangers beside her. I watched from my own table, my heart pounding.
When dinner was announced, the servers moved like a small army. Plates came out in waves. The head table was served first. There were toasts and laughter. Plates went to the tables near the front, hot and full. I looked over at my mother’s table. The place settings there were still empty.
Time passed. Guests dug into food. The room filled with the sound of forks and knives and contented conversation. Table 8 remained empty. I stood up and went to find a server.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I think Table 8 hasn’t been served yet.”
The server glanced at the list on her clipboard.
“We ran short on the first round,” she said quickly. “The kitchen is putting something together. They’ll be served soon.”
“What do you mean you ran short?” I asked. “Is the food not plated for everyone already?”
She shifted her weight.
“They miscounted a little,” she said. “Don’t worry. They’ll be fed.”