I pictured Liam standing at the altar, turning, seeing me in the front row.
I pictured our mother-son dance—the one he’d talked about since he was little, when he’d watch wedding scenes in movies and whisper, “That’s gonna be me, and you’ll be there.”
So when he came over alone a week before the wedding, my first thought wasn’t fear.
It was concern.
He walked into my living room like he was stepping onto thin ice. His shoulders were tight. He didn’t take his jacket off. He didn’t kiss my cheek.
He just stood there, eyes fixed somewhere above my head, like the ceiling fan was giving him instructions.
“Mom,” he said, voice low. “We need to talk about the wedding.”
I tried to smile, because that’s what mothers do when their child looks like he’s holding a grenade.
“Is something wrong with the venue?” I asked gently. “Do you need money?”
His jaw flexed. He swallowed.
“We chose a historic chapel,” he said slowly, like reading from a script. “It’s… on a cliff.”
I blinked. “On a cliff?”
“It’s beautiful,” he rushed on. “It overlooks the ocean. The photos are going to be incredible.”
A cold feeling crept up my spine.
“And… is it accessible?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
His silence was the answer.
He finally looked at me, and his eyes were full of something I’d never seen there before—not love, not worry, not even anger.
Embarrassment.
“Jessica and the planner say adding a ramp would ruin the aesthetic,” he said. “The chapel is old stone. They want everything to look… floating. Clean.”
