“Mom—”
“I’ve watched Vanessa interrupt you and make decisions for you all day, and you haven’t said anything.”
“She’s stressed. It’s our wedding.”
“Grant, look at me.”
Eventually, he did.
Something in his expression bothered me.
Frustration.
Embarrassment.
Maybe something deeper.
“Are you actually happy?”
For just a moment, it looked as though he wanted to answer honestly.
Then Vanessa appeared.
“There you are! Grant, seriously? I’ve been looking everywhere. We’re already behind schedule.”
Then she turned toward me and laughed.
“And Joan, could you stop stealing my groom?”
A couple of nearby guests laughed along with her.
Grant didn’t.
He simply followed Vanessa back into the reception.
I stood in the hallway for a moment wondering whether I should go after him.
Part of me wanted to take my son outside and ask him one more time what was happening.
But I hesitated.
Maybe I was being overly protective.
Maybe wedding stress was making everything seem worse than it really was.
So I returned to my table.
For the next twenty minutes, I watched Vanessa happily talking with her relatives.
Her mother sat nearby in that blue gown, chatting with the other women wearing the same color.
Grant barely spoke.
He answered people when they addressed him directly, but something had changed.
His shoulders were tense.
His smile disappeared whenever he thought nobody was watching.
Every instinct I had as his mother told me something was wrong.
Then I heard a spoon tap against a champagne glass.
The room slowly became quiet.
I looked up.
Grant was standing.
Vanessa looked surprised.
“I’d like to make a toast,” he announced.
Then he looked directly at me.
And that was when I realized how angry he was.
His tie had been loosened.
His face was flushed.
His hand gripped the glass tightly.
I had never seen my calm, easygoing son look like that.
The guests smiled, expecting some sweet speech from the groom.
But I knew Grant’s expression.
Everything he had kept inside throughout the day had finally reached the surface.
I stood quickly.
“Grant, no.”
Every head turned toward me.
Grant froze.
Vanessa stared.
“What?” she asked.
I kept my eyes on my son.
“Don’t say something in anger that you may regret later.”
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then Grant slowly placed the glass on the table.
“I’m not angry about one thing, Mom.”
His voice was remarkably quiet.
Vanessa stood.
“Grant, what are you doing?”
He turned toward her.
“I’m finally saying what I should have said a long time ago.”
Her expression changed.
“Then we should talk privately.”
“No.”
The room became silent again.
Grant glanced at me.
“I’ve been dealing with everything privately for two years.”
My stomach tightened.
Vanessa reached for his arm.
Grant moved slightly away.
“Grant,” she said quietly.
He continued.
“I knew about the blue dresses.”
I stared at him.
Vanessa’s mother stopped smiling.
“I found out three days ago,” Grant continued.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
“Because Vanessa said she would fix it.”
Vanessa shook her head.
“That isn’t what happened.”
Grant gave a humorless little laugh.
“You told my mother blue was part of the wedding palette and convinced her to buy another dress. Then your mother and your aunts arrived wearing blue because you decided that color was for family.”
Vanessa’s mother folded her arms.
“It’s a tradition.”
“No,” Grant replied. “It became a tradition last month.”
People shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
Vanessa looked around.
“This is ridiculous.”
Then Grant said something that changed her expression completely.
“I saw the group messages.”
Vanessa went pale.
Her mother turned toward her.
“What messages?”
Grant pulled out his phone.
Suddenly, I understood why my son had seemed so distant throughout the day.
This wasn’t a sudden reaction.
He had been carrying this knowledge for days.
“I wasn’t supposed to see them,” he explained. “Vanessa left her tablet open at home.”
“Grant, please don’t,” Vanessa whispered.
He looked at her.
“You called my mother ‘the other mother.’”
My chest tightened.
Vanessa closed her eyes.
Grant continued.
“You said you didn’t want her wearing the same color as the people who would be in the ‘real family pictures.’”
Nobody laughed now.
I looked directly at Vanessa.
She wouldn’t meet my eyes.
Her mother spoke first.
“You’re taking those messages out of context.”
I almost laughed.
“What possible context makes that sound better?”
She had no answer.
Grant turned toward me.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
Those two words affected me more than everything else that had happened that day.
Not because of Vanessa.
Because of the shame in my son’s voice.
“Grant, you didn’t do this.”
“I let it happen.”
His eyes filled with tears.
I had rarely seen my adult son cry.
Vanessa placed her hand on his shoulder.
“Can we please stop?”
Grant moved away again.
“No. That’s exactly the problem.”
She frowned.
“What problem?”
“You decide when every conversation is finished.”
Her expression hardened.
Grant’s voice became steadier.
“You decide where we go. You decide when our plans change. You decide who gets invited. You decide what I’m supposed to say when people ask questions.”
“That’s not fair.”