Throughout the entire reception, my mother laughed—loud, shameless, triumphant. She dragged me along, raising her glass to toast every table, not caring about the stares, the murmurs, the judgment rippling through the room.
She looked like a woman who had finally, after all these years, won.
A wave of dizziness hit me. I nearly lost my footing.
My mother caught my arm, her voice laced with concern. "Sweetie, is your blood sugar low? Let Joel take you to lie down for a bit."
She shot Joel a look. He immediately wrapped an arm around me and steered me toward the back room.
Behind us, my mother's voice rang out cheerfully. "Everyone, please—eat, drink! Irene hasn't been sleeping well these past few days. I'm just going to help her rest."
My vision blurred. Everything swam. Shapes melted into shadows.
My legs buckled. I stumbled, nearly hitting the floor.
Joel seized the opportunity, scooping me up into his arms. His hands didn't stay still—they wandered, roaming where they had no right to be.
I looked to my mother, helpless. "Mom, tell him to put me down."
She leaned in close. Her lips brushed my ear.
"Sweetie," she whispered, "I'm not your mother."
The words landed like a blade.