As the wedding toasts began, I tried to blend into the background, hoping for a moment of recognition, a shared glance that said, “Thank you, Mom.” Instead, there was a jest—a casual remark about leftovers that cut deeper than he could have imagined. He laughed, expecting me to join in. But I couldn’t.

His words chased me into the night, and the journey home was a blur. In the solitude of my living room, I found the courage to express what had been left unsaid for too long. My email was brief, but pointed—a testament to years of quiet endurance, sacrifices cloaked in silence. I wasn’t angry, just unbearably tired of being unseen, even by my own son.