The card on the front row said MOTHER OF THE BRIDE.
It was printed in gold letters on thick, creamy paper, the kind that costs three dollars a sheet. It was propped up on the first chair on the left side of the aisle, right next to a little bouquet of white roses tied to the end of the pew.
Underneath, in fancy black script, it said a name.
Crystal Dunn.
I stood there in the empty church and read it three times. My hand was still holding the little beaded purse I’d bought for the wedding. I’d spent forty minutes in a department store picking it out because I wanted it to match my dress exactly. Dusty rose. Hannah’s favorite color when she was eight.
It was eleven-fifteen in the morning. The ceremony started at noon. The ushers were still setting out programs, and the florist was fussing with the arch at the front of the church. Nobody was paying any attention to me.
I told myself it was a mistake.
Maybe there were two cards. Maybe mine was on the other side. Maybe the planner had put us next to each other, side by side, both mothers in the front row. That would be fine. I could sit next to Crystal for forty-five minutes. I could smile. I could do it for Hannah.
I checked the other chairs in the front row. Mark’s mother. Mark’s brother and his wife. Hannah’s grandmother on Crystal’s side. A man I didn’t know.
No Laura.
I checked the second row. Cousins. Aunts. A college roommate.
No Laura.
I kept walking. Third row. Fourth row. Fifth. My heels clicked on the old wooden floor. The farther back I went, the louder they seemed.
My card was in the very last row. On the aisle. Right by the big double doors where the ushers would stand. Right where the cold air would blow in every time somebody came late.
It was a small white card. Plain. Not cream. Not gold.
It said one word.
Guest.
Not my name. Not “Stepmother.” Not “Laura.” Just Guest. The same word they’d put on the cards for people’s plus-ones. For the coworker somebody invited at the last minute. For strangers.
I picked it up. My fingers were shaking.
That’s when I smelled the perfume.
It was expensive. Heavy and sweet, like gardenias left too long in a hot car. I knew that perfume. For two years, it had been on the throw pillows in my living room. It had been on Hannah’s jacket when she came home from dress fittings. It had been in the air of every room I walked into, about thirty seconds after Crystal walked out of it.
She was standing right behind me in a champagne-colored dress that probably cost more than my first car. Her blond hair was swept up. Her makeup was perfect. She was fifty-one years old and she looked forty.
“Oh, good,” she said softly. “You found it.”
I turned around.
She leaned in close, so close her lips were almost touching my ear. Her voice was sweet as honey.
“Real mothers sit up front,” she whispered. “I’m sure you understand.”
Sophia Rivers is an experienced News Content Editor with a sharp eye for detail and a passion for delivering accurate and engaging news stories. At TheArchivists, she specializes in curating, editing, and presenting news content that informs and resonates with a global audience.
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