The wedding venue was so over the top, it almost felt like a parody: white columns, crystal candle holders, and around 200 guests in their best suits and last names. In the center was me and Adam—well, mostly Adam, the family’s golden boy. I was the shiny acquisition with nice teeth.
My mom, Pam, sat next to me, quiet and composed in a dress she’d found on clearance and altered overnight. Her hair was perfect, as always. She’s a hairstylist. Someone at the next table whispered, “Did she do her own hair? Impressive.” Impressive is raising a kid solo for 25 years in the same tiny apartment. This was just hair.
I flipped through the wedding booklet. Adam’s parents had titles, honors, and “grateful for their generous support and wisdom.” My mom was just “Pam, hair artist, heart of gold.” No last name, no mention that she raised me alone since I was three. I shut the booklet and looked at my mom. She gave me her “let’s just get through tonight” smile.
And then Ronald, Adam’s dad, stood up. He raised his glass. “Tonight, we celebrate a story,” he said, his smile coming with a price tag. “A story of success. A story of someone rising above their circumstances. This is America, after all, where even if you weren’t born with a silver spoon, but say, a comb in your hand, you can still make something of yourself.”
Polite, measured laughter. I saw Mom’s fork twitch
Then came Deborah, Adam’s mother, the kind of woman whose voice is honey, but her spoon is full of arsenic. “Monica is proof that talent doesn’t depend on geography,” she said, smiling just wide enough. “I’m sure much of Monica’s gift comes from her mother,” she continued, staring right at her. “The ability to see beauty in simplicity, to work with your hands, to stay connected to ordinary people. That kind of gift, well, it doesn’t come with diplomas.”
