When my divorced mom said she’d met someone, I cheered her on. Loneliness had been her shadow for years. The catch? This guy, Aaron—her new fiancé—was exactly my age. I hit the brakes hard.
I arrived for dinner with a modest bottle of wine—budgeting was tight because I was saving to open my own restaurant someday. Instead of seeing an elder suitor, I walked into my first real betrayal.
There he was, Aaron, handsome, confident, same age as me, and near my mom. “Are you kidding me?” I blurted. “Is this some joke?”
Mom wasn’t in on the punchline: “Aaron proposed— we’re getting married in two months!”
Aaron tried to calm me: “I don’t care about her money. I love her.” But I couldn’t shake the discomfort. I stomped out, convinced she’d chosen a peer over her daughter.
Days later, I called and offered forced forgiveness. Mom beamed—“Let’s plan together,” she said. I helped with cake, fittings—even wedding décor. But trust didn’t come easily.
On wedding day, Mom lost her phone. I returned to help search—and stumbled on a locked drawer. Inside: debt notices under Aaron’s name, and property papers for my mom’s house—signed by Aaron.
I dropped everything: “Stop the wedding!” I yelled.
The truth hit harder than any argument. Aaron wasn’t conning her. He’d signed those papers to secure the restaurant deal I dreamed about—using wedding and savings funds we hadn’t yet cashed in on. He was helping me fulfill my passion.
I sank in shame—and gratitude. “I was wrong,” I whispered. “I’m sorry—for doubting both of you.”
