PART 2 — The Photograph on the Mantel
Ethan whispered something to the officiant.
Then he started walking down the aisle.
Straight toward me.
Nearly two hundred guests turned to watch.
Lauren called after him.
“Ethan?”
He didn’t stop.
When he reached my pew, he stared at me as if he had seen someone impossible.
“Is that really you?”
“I’m sorry?”
He looked closer.
“Oh my God.”
Lauren hurried toward us.
“What are you doing?”
Ethan pointed toward me.
“This is your mother?”
Lauren’s face changed.
“Ethan, please.”
He looked confused.
“Why is she sitting back here?”
Before Lauren could answer, I did.
“I wasn’t invited.”
Ethan turned sharply.
“What?”
“I only came to leave Lauren something.”
I held up the velvet box.
His expression shifted from confusion to disbelief.
“You didn’t invite your own mother?”
Lauren whispered:
“It’s complicated.”
Then Ethan looked at me again.
“I’m Ethan.”
“I gathered.”
For some reason, he laughed.
Then his eyes filled with tears.
Before I could understand why, he gently took my arm.
“Would you come with me?”
Lauren immediately said:
“Ethan, don’t.”
He turned toward her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He led me toward the altar.
Then, facing the guests, Ethan said:
“Before we continue, there’s something everyone needs to understand.”
He pointed toward me.
“Lauren’s mother is the reason my family still has a home.”
I froze.
A woman in the front row suddenly stood.
She was crying.
When she came closer, I finally recognized her.
“Janice?”
Twelve years earlier, Janice had walked into the credit union where I worked.
Her husband’s business had collapsed.
Their mortgage was months behind.
Their home was approaching foreclosure.
She had been terrified and completely overwhelmed by the hardship paperwork.
I helped her complete it.
Then, after my shifts ended, I kept calling for several days until the necessary documents were approved.
I barely remembered it.
Janice remembered everything.
“You saved our house,” she said.
“I was doing my job.”
“No,” she replied. “Your job ended when your shift ended. You stayed.”
Then Ethan’s father stood.
“We have your photograph on our mantel.”
I stared at him.
“My photograph?”
Ethan nodded.
Years earlier, I had received a small community service award.
His family had framed the photograph.
A brass plate beneath it displayed my name.
MARGARET — COMMUNITY SERVICE AWARD.
Then Ethan slowly turned toward Lauren.
“You’ve been inside my parents’ house dozens of times.”
Lauren went white.
“Did you know who your mother was to us?”
She said nothing.
“Lauren.”
Finally, she whispered:
“Yes.”
“You saw the photograph?”
“Yes.”
“And the name?”
She nodded.
Ethan stepped backward.
“Then why did you spend all this time keeping me from meeting her?”
Lauren started crying.
“Because I lied.”
