My own son allowed his wife to throw me out of the wedding I paid for, without imagining the letter I was carrying in my bag.

The figure seemed absurd to me.

But I signed.

During the following weeks I paid for the vineyard rental, the banquet, the flowers, the photographer, the music, the imported drinks and a long list of details that Amanda considered indispensable.

After the preparations were completed, the total cost amounted to $132,486.

More than one hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars.

It all came out of my savings.

Amanda called me after the first payment was confirmed.

—Judith, you don’t know how much this means to us.

Her voice was sweet, almost affectionate.

—Jacob always tells me you’re an amazing woman.

Those words made me smile for the rest of the day.

I thought that, perhaps, after the wedding we would become a closer family again.

I made a mistake.

First came a style guide for the guests.

The dress code was to be elegant, with lavender, silver, and white as the colors. No flashy accessories, antique brooches, or clothing that appeared outdated were allowed.

“We want everything to look modern,” Amanda explained to me during a call. “You know, we want the photographs to have a uniform aesthetic.”

—Of course, dear.

I had several pretty dresses, but I bought a lavender one to avoid any problems.

Then came the plan of the tables.

I looked up my name.

I found it at table nine, behind a column, next to the kitchen doors.

Amanda’s family would occupy the best tables, near the bride and groom. Her parents would be at the front, accompanied by her grandparents and her sister.

I, the groom’s mother, would practically be in hiding.

I called Amanda.

—Honey, I wanted to ask you something about the table layout.

-What happened?

—I saw that you put me at table nine. Do you think there was a mistake?

There was a brief silence.

—No, Judith. This works better for photographs.

—But I am Jacob’s mother.

—And you’ll be able to see the ceremony perfectly. I don’t understand what the problem is.

I remained silent.

“Furthermore,” he added, “I would appreciate it if you didn’t make every detail a personal matter. We’re under a lot of pressure.”

The call ended a few seconds later.

I stared at my phone.

I thought about calling Jacob, but I could hear his answer before I dialed.

Mom, don’t make a big deal out of this.

It was the phrase she used every time I tried to talk about something that hurt me.

So I kept quiet.

I also remained silent when Amanda asked to change the flowers for imported varieties that cost twice as much.

And when Jacob explained to me that his future wife considered the local wine to look cheap.

And when I received a guest list that included Amanda’s former colleagues, people I had never met, but whose dinners I was also funding.

I kept telling myself that I was doing it for my son.

A mother can convince herself of almost anything when she is afraid of losing her only child.

The night before the wedding, however, something changed.

I sat at the dining room table with Harold’s black book, a calculator, and a stack of receipts.

I started adding.

Renting the vineyard.

The flowers.

The banquet.

The photograph.

The drinks.

The advances.

Final payments.

Every amount was documented. Every important contract bore my signature. Every invoice proved who had covered the cost of the celebration.

The total reappeared on the screen.

$132,486.

I closed my eyes.

It wasn’t the money that made me tremble.

It was the feeling of having unwittingly bought the right to remain close to my own son.

I opened the book to an old page.

There I found a child’s drawing that Jacob had made when he was seven years old. He had drawn me with a crooked cape and a wooden spoon in my hand, as if I were a superheroine.

Below, Harold had written a sentence in his slanted handwriting:

Keep this. Someday you might need to remember who you are.

I remembered that night Jacob woke up crying from a nightmare. He asked me for spaghetti at eleven o’clock at night and we ended up sitting on the kitchen floor, eating from the same plate.

He had tomato sauce on his chin when he looked at me and said:

—You always fix everything, Mom.

I hugged him.

—Whenever I can, darling.

That promise had guided my life for decades.

But now I understood that fixing everything didn’t mean allowing others to break me.

I took a sheet of paper and wrote a letter.

It wasn’t long.

Nor was he kind in the way Amanda understood kindness.

She was honest.

When I finished, I folded it, put it in an envelope, and sealed it.