But the wedding planning made the distance undeniable. Emma, polite but somewhat formal, rarely included Linda in decisions. She heard details secondhand. At the rehearsal dinner, she stood alone until she finally introduced herself around the room. When silk robes were handed out to the bridal party and both mothers, her name was quietly skipped.
During photographs, the photographer nudged her gently to the edge of each frame.
What she didn’t know was that Michael had, almost unintentionally, shaped how others saw her. He’d told stories—childhood memories he thought were harmless—about a single mother making ends meet, about creative meals from whatever was left in the fridge. He meant them as affectionate anecdotes. But repeated often enough, they became a kind of shorthand for who Linda was in the eyes of the bride’s family.
So when he made that offhand remark at the reception, it didn’t seem out of place to those who had heard the stories. It fit the character they believed they understood.
But it wasn’t the whole story. It wasn’t even close.
The Email That Changed Everything
At her hotel desk, Linda wrote calmly.
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