I was 22 when I had Lucas. His biological father left before he was born, so I learned early how to be everything at once—comfort, strength, and protection.
When I met Michael, everything changed. He loved Lucas instantly, without hesitation. School events, scraped knees, bedtime fears—Lucas was never “extra.” He was family.
Michael’s mother, Loretta, never accepted that. She made it clear she didn’t approve of me “coming with a child,” but I never imagined how cruel she could be.
Months before the wedding, Lucas grew secretive, locking his door every afternoon. Then, three weeks before the ceremony, he came to my room holding a garment bag.
Inside was a handmade crocheted wedding dress. He’d taught himself new stitches online, spent his allowance on yarn, and worked in secret just to make something special for me.
I told him I’d wear it. His pride was unforgettable.
On the wedding morning, the room filled with admiration—until Loretta arrived. She mocked the dress, called it a tablecloth, and told Lucas crochet was “for girls.” He apologized through tears.
Before I could speak, Michael stepped forward.
He put his arm around Lucas and said, “This is my son. This dress is made of love. If anyone here disrespects him, they can leave.”
He demanded an apology—or distance forever.
Loretta apologized, too late to matter.
Later, Lucas walked me down the aisle, head held high.
That day, my son learned what family truly is.
Not blood.
But choosing each other—always.
