Wendy made it obvious my grandson wasn’t welcome, not at her wedding, not in her home, and not in her life. My son accompanied it, but I didn’t. I kept smiling, played the doting mother-in-law, and waited for the right moment to display everyone exactly what kind of woman he married.

I remember the first time I met Wendy.It was brunch at a pretentious café with concrete walls, loud cutlery, and food that looked better than it tasted. She arrived ten minutes late in a crisp cream blazer and didn’t apologize. She addressed me with a handshake instead of a hug and didn’t once ask how I was.

My son Matthew couldn’t stop smiling. I watched him study her face as she talked about gallery openings and houseplants and something called “intentional design.”She was glossy, sharp, and ambitious.

But she never once asked about Alex, my grandson, and Matthew’s little boy from his first marriage. He was five at the time and had been living with me ever since his mother passed.

Her lack of care, inquiry, or even mention of him disturbed me.

When Matthew told me they were getting married, my first instinct wasn’t joy, it was a question, “Why doesn’t she ever spend time with Alex?”

There was a hesitate and a flicker of something in his eyes but then he said, “She’s… changing. It’s a process.”

That was the first forewarning bell. I didn’t press him on it then, but I should’ve.

I didn’t see his name on the invitation, or a role for him. There was no announcement of a suit or special photo.Two weeks before the wedding, I invited Wendy to my house for tea. I thought maybe she just needed to hear it from me, what Alex meant to our family.

She appeared in a crisp white blouse, not a wrinkle on her, and everything about her was collected.

I asked gently, “So, what part will Alex be playing in the wedding?”

She twinkled, set her cup down, and smiled.

“Oh. Well… it’s not really a kid-friendly event,” she said.

“A wedding isn’t a nightclub, Wendy,” I replied, keeping my voice steady. “He’s five. And he’s Matthew’s son.”

She leaned back and said, “Exactly, he’s Matthew’s son, not mine.”

I cried at her, unsure I’d heard right.
She went on. “Look, I don’t hate kids, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just… I’m not ready to be a full-time stepmom. Matthew and I agreed that Alex will go on staying with you because we our need space. It’s better for everyone.”

“It’s not better for Alex,” I said.

She laughed, like I was being operatic. “He won’t even remember this day. He’s five.”

“He’ll remember not being included,” I said. “Children always remember when they’re excluded.”

Her jaw tensed. “This is our wedding. I’m not endangering the photos, the energy, or the experience just because people expect some sentimental moment with a child I barely know.”

I didn’t say anything after that.