Wendy made it clear: my grandson wasn’t welcome—not at her wedding, not in her home, not in her life.
Matthew went along with it. I didn’t. I played nice, waited, and watched.Our first meeting said it all—Wendy arrived late, cold handshake, no warmth.She spoke of art galleries, never once mentioned Alex—his quiet, motherless son.
When I asked why she ignored him, Matthew said, “She’s adjusting.” A red flag.As the wedding neared, Alex was left out of everything.I asked Wendy, “What’s his role?” She scoffed: “He’s not mine. He won’t remember.”But I would—and so would he.
On the big day, I dressed Alex myself. He clutched flowers for her.Wendy saw him and snapped, “Why is he here?” I calmly replied, “For his father.”She hissed, “Don’t include him in photos.” I smiled. “Of course not.”I’d already hired a second photographer to capture the truth.
At the toast, I raised my glass: “To Wendy, the daughter I never had—may she learn families can’t be edited.”Silence followed. Alex tugged her dress. “You look so pretty.” She barely looked at him.Weeks later, I gave Matthew the photo album. He saw it all.He left her. Took Alex home. “Do we live together now?” Alex asked. “Yes,” Matthew said—and that was enough.