For days, I tried not to think about it. I glanced at dresses in store windows downtown, but I knew they were out of reach. Every dollar I earned went to rent, food… and sometimes helping Mark back when he was still studying.
Then I remembered something I had kept for years.
A green dress.
Simple, a bit worn, with delicate embroidery across the chest.
I had worn it on important days—when Mark was born… when he graduated.
Every time I looked at it, I saw our entire journey.
But now… it looked old.
I tried borrowing a dress from neighbors, but nothing fit. And deep down, I felt like I would be pretending to be someone I wasn’t.
So I made a quiet decision.
I would go wearing my green dress.
Not out of pride.
But because it was the only thing that truly belonged to me.
The wedding day came.
The church was filled with white flowers, soft music, and elegant guests dressed in expensive suits and sparkling gowns.
The moment I walked in, I felt the looks.
Some curious. Some judgmental.
“I think that’s the groom’s mother…”
“She should have dressed better…”
My face burned. I slipped into a seat at the back, hoping to stay unnoticed. All I wanted was to see my son get married… and leave quietly.