I flipped through the wedding booklet. Adam’s parents had titles, honors, and “grateful for their generous support and wisdom.” My mom was just “Pam, hair artist, heart of gold.” No last name, no mention that she raised me alone since I was three. I shut the booklet and looked at my mom. She gave me her “let’s just get through tonight” smile.

And then Ronald, Adam’s dad, stood up. He raised his glass. “Tonight, we celebrate a story,” he said, his smile coming with a price tag. “A story of success. A story of someone rising above their circumstances. This is America, after all, where even if you weren’t born with a silver spoon, but say, a comb in your hand, you can still make something of yourself.”

Polite, measured laughter. I saw Mom’s fork twitch