My Son's Wedding
The September sun was still a bit harsh, sweat dripping from my temple onto the blue bricks, drying quickly.
By the flowerpot lay a smooth pebble, drawn by Eric Gabriel when he was five years old.
The blue sky, the yellow sun, and a crooked little figure—he said it was "Mom and me."
The roses that Old Ben Gabriel planted still bloom, their pink and white petals dusted with dew.
The year he left was also September; holding my hand, he said, "Viola, now that Eric Gabriel is with you, I won’t worry."
Suddenly, the sound of a car braking came from outside the iron gate.
I straightened up and saw a van parked by the roadside, bearing the "A Good Family" logo.
The paint on the van was chipped in places, revealing the gray primer beneath.
It felt as if life had stripped away all its shine, leaving only a worn, rough edge.
A few people got out—some carrying video cameras, others holding microphones.
The man leading them wore a wrinkled suit, his hair slicked back, a forced smile on his face as he walked toward me.
His leather shoes were dotted with mud, probably from being stuck in traffic and taking a detour through the countryside.
The microphone cover in his hand was frayed at the edges, stained with a bit of coffee.
"Are you Ms. Viola Lincoln?" He held the microphone toward me, his voice deliberately cordial.
I took a step back, still gripping a half-stem of foxtail grass, the fuzz on its leaves tickling my palm.
"We're the mediation team from the show called 'A Good Family,'" he said, gesturing toward the video camera behind him. It was humming softly, the lens cover still on. "Your son, Jim Clark, is getting married. He and Mr. Yale Clark have specially invited us to bring you to the wedding."
"Jim Clark?" I was momentarily stunned.
A vague image of a little boy flashed through my mind—dressed in blue overalls, holding a toy car he slammed into my knee. One wheel had fallen off, and he was crying, "You owe me for my car!"
"Mom, how could you even forget me?" A tall man emerged from behind the crowd.
He wore a gray suit, his tie slightly askew, the collar stained with a bit of grease. His features echoed Yale Clark's, but he looked even more severe.
Only then did I realize—it was Jim Clark.
When I gave birth to him, I suffered severe hemorrhaging and stayed hospitalized for half a month.
"It’s good that you get married." I said, tossing the foxtail grass into the trash bin and brushing dirt from my hands, some soil still trapped under my nails. "You must be around thirty now, right?"
His expression darkened, as if displeased by my calm tone.
He instinctively touched the cuff of his suit, where a loose thread hung—probably from wearing it too long without replacing it.
The camera lens was aimed at me, and the bright light made my eyes ache.
The young man holding the light looked quite young; his forehead was slick with sweat, and his hand trembled slightly.
"Who are these people?" I pointed toward the crew members.
The man in the suit quickly replied, "Ms. Lincoln, we're here to help resolve your family issues."
"You left home years ago, hurting Mr. Clark and Jim Clark's feelings. Now is a good time to make amends."
The wind swept fallen leaves onto the man in the suit's shoulder. He brushed them off with disdain; the movement was so forceful he nearly dropped the microphone.
I remembered the winter two decades ago.
The snow was three feet deep, crunching beneath my steps, burying my ankles. Mary Scott, wrapped in my cashmere coat, sat on the living room sofa holding the white fungus soup I had simmered for three hours, the red dates still unpitted.
Yale Clark stood beside her, peeling an orange, the peels scattered across the floor. "Don't be angry. Viola Lincoln doesn't understand. I'll talk to her."
Mary Scott curled her lips and set the bowl of white fungus soup on the tea table, the porcelain chipping slightly: "I'm not angry, just feeling wronged. Living here, I feel like an outsider."
I had just come back from the market, carrying strawberries—Jim Clark's favorite—in a plastic bag, frozen stiff.
Hearing this, I placed the strawberries on the tea table, droplets from the plastic bag soaking into the wood grain. "Miss Scott, this is my home. You've stayed here three months; isn't it time for you to move out?"
Jim Clark suddenly rushed over, his little fist hitting my waist.
His nails were long, tearing my sweater; the yarn got caught in the grooves of his nails and scratched my skin.
Yale Clark pulled Jim Clark behind him, his face as cold as ice, exhaling white breath as he said, "Viola Lincoln, have you caused enough trouble? If Mary hadn't gone abroad back then, I wouldn't have married you. This family isn't yours to control."
Later, during the New Year, Yale Clark took Mary Scott to the company's annual party.
Mary Scott wore a red dress bought by Yale Clark with my year-end bonus.
I watched them enter, my patience snapped, and I said, "Yale Clark, do you choose me or her?"
Without a second thought, he tossed the scarf onto the sofa and said, "If you don't want to stay, then leave."
That night, wearing only a thin nightgown, they pushed me out the door. The cold wind cut into my face like a knife, making my teeth chatter.
Jim Clark shouted from inside the door, "Don't ever come back! I never want to see you again!"
His voice came through the thick door, sharp and piercing like a child's cry, stabbing my ears.
I curled up inside the neighborhood security booth. The heater was broken, so all I could do was wrap myself in the army coat the security guard handed me.
The coat smelled of tobacco, but it somehow made me feel a little warmer.
The security guard sighed and said, "A home like this, it's better not to go back."
The next day, I returned to find the lock on the door had been changed.
I stood outside the door, hearing Mary Scott's laughter from inside, along with Jim Clark calling out, "Ms. Scott, I want to eat your steamed egg custard," his voice sickeningly sweet—completely different from when he used to call me "Mom."
I clenched the divorce papers in my pocket until they were all wrinkled.
As I turned to leave, a photo slipped out of my pocket—Jim Clark at three years old, sitting in my arms, smiling with two little tiger teeth showing. The photo was soon buried under the snow, never to be found again.
Later, I moved to a small town in the south and took a job as a caregiver.
I cared for Old Ben Gabriel, who had Parkinson's and trembling hands, yet he always smiled and said, "Thank you."
When he learned my story, he didn't look down on me; instead, he helped me find a small apartment with a balcony so I could dry my bedding in the sun.
Eric Gabriel was only five years old then. The first time he saw me, he handed me a candy: "Hello, this is milk candy I've been saving for you."
The wrapper was pink, and when I peeled it open, a milky fragrance came through. It was so sweet it brought tears to my eyes.
"Mom, so many years have passed. What are you still upset?" Jim Clark's voice brought me back to reality.
He frowned, his eyes full of reproach, as if leaving back then was the worst mistake I ever made.
The man in the suit added, "Ms. Lincoln, women have to be more magnanimous. Jim's getting married, and if his own mother isn't there, what will the bride's family think? You can't be so selfish."
"Me, selfish?" I looked at them.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting mottled shadows on the ground, much like my shattered heart back then—broken pieces that could never be pieced back together.
"I'm not a public figure; I don't have to care what others think," I said as I turned and walked down the hallway.
"I won't be attending the wedding. You can leave now."
"Ms. Lincoln!" The man in the suit caught up to me, his breath heavy and smelling of smoke. "If all women abandoned their husbands and children like you, the world would go crazy, right?"
His spit splattered on my face. I wiped it off and went inside. On the hook behind the door hung the scarf Eric Gabriel had bought me—gray, soft, and warm.
The moment the door closed, I heard Jim Clark say, "She will definitely come. She can't live without me."
Leaning against the door, I recalled Eric as a child—every time I worked late, he'd wait by the door, holding a drawing he'd made: "Mom, I'm waiting for you to come home. I left some warm milk for you."
Suddenly, my phone buzzed. It was a message from Vivian Shaw.
Vivian Shaw is Eric Gabriel's wife. The first time she came to the house, she carried a thermos and said, "Mom, I made some pork rib soup for you to try."
The soup was fresh, not too salty, just to my taste.
"Mom, during national day, the son of a business partner is getting married. Eric has to go on a business trip abroad and asked me to accompany you—just to show face and then leave."
Attached was an electronic invitation card. The groom's name was Jim Clark, and the bride's photo showed her smiling shyly, her eyes curved like a good girl.
I stared at the screen for a long moment.
Eric Gabriel probably doesn't know that Jim Clark is my son.
Last time he mentioned that someone named Jim Clark wanted to collaborate with the Gabriel Group, and said, "That person looks at me strangely and keeps asking about my family."
Now that I think about it, Jim Clark must have known about Eric and me all along.
Well, that's for the best—no need for him to worry. I replied "OK" to Vivian Shaw, then placed my phone on the tea table, where a photo of Old Ben Gabriel rested; he smiled gently.
The wedding was on national day; the sky was clear and cloudless.
Vivian Shaw wore an off-white dress that made her skin look very fair. She linked her arm with mine and said, "Mom, the wind is a bit strong today, so I brought you a shawl." The shawl was made of cashmere, something she had specially picked out from the mall.
As soon as we got out of the car, a few children ran over, holding chocolate cakes in their hands.
The cream on the cakes was still steaming—it had just been bought from the dessert shop.
A little boy lost his footing, and the cake ended up smeared on Vivian Shaw's dress.
Dark brown chocolate sauce ran down the dress, staining the hem like a spilled pot of ink.
The boy's mother hurried over and tugged his ear twice, making him cry out in pain. "You little rascal! Sorry, sorry. Let me take you to the lounge to change clothes, okay? I have wet wipes in my bag, so you can clean up first."
Vivian Shaw smiled and shook her head, then crouched down to pat the boy's head. "It's okay. I'll just go change my dress."
The boy stopped crying and shyly said, "I'm sorry."
Vivian Shaw took a piece of fruit candy from her bag and handed it to him: "It's okay, here—take this."
I watched Vivian Shaw's retreating figure, feeling a warm glow in my heart.
Eric Gabriel didn't choose the wrong person; she's gentle and kind, unlike Mary Scott, who only puts on a show.
I grabbed my bag and headed toward the banquet hall.
A red carpet was laid out at the banquet hall entrance, with a few footprints on it—probably someone accidentally stepped on it and dirtied it.
As I reached the door, a security guard stopped me. "Please show your invitation card."
The security guard wore a black uniform; the collar button was undone, revealing the white shirt underneath, its sleeves rolled up.
I showed him the electronic invitation card: "I am Eric Gabriel's mother. Mrs. Gabriel asked me to come."
The security guard glanced at the invitation card, then looked me up and down with suspicion. "The invitation says Eric Gabriel and family, but your surname is Lincoln. How can you prove you're related? Don't think you can just sneak in for the food. Our manager said no outsiders are allowed at today's wedding banquet."
Everyone around turned to look.
A woman in a cheongsam laughed into her handkerchief; her lipstick was a vivid, bold red at the corners of her mouth.
An old man shook his head and said, "These days, everyone tries to freeload at wedding."
A young woman held her phone, secretly taking pictures of me while quietly whispering to someone beside her.
I tightened my grip on the strap; the bag had been bought by Eric Gabriel last year. It was genuine leather and felt wonderful to the touch. Just as I was about to speak, I heard a gentle voice say, "You're here—why didn't you tell me?"
Mary Scott approached, wearing a purple cheongsam. Her hair was pinned up meticulously, with a pearl hairpin nestled among the strands.
She was a bit heavier than before, with fine lines at the corners of her eyes, but her smile was still the same—falsely warm. As she spoke, she deliberately tugged at the hem of her cheongsam, revealing the jade bracelet on her wrist.
Yale Clark followed behind her. When he saw me, his eyes briefly lit up, then quickly dimmed again.
He shouted at the security guard, "Are you blind? She's my guest, and you dare to stop her? If something goes wrong today, can you afford to pay for it?"
The security guard was frightened and quickly nodded. "Sorry, Mr. Clark, I didn't mean to."
Mary Scott gently tugged Yale Clark's arm, her voice as soft as water: "Yale, don't be angry. The security guard is just doing his job; he doesn't know Viola's status, so it's not his fault."
She then turned to the security guard, smiling as she said, "You did a great job. I'll have your manager give you a raise later. You can go now; I've got this."
The security guard nodded and left dejectedly, glancing back at me as he went, his eyes full of confusion.
Mary Scott linked her arm with mine. Her fingers felt cold, her nails painted red, and the slight scratch on my arm made me a bit itchy.
"Viola, how have you been all these years? I heard you've been working as a nanny. It must be tough for you. Look at the clothes you're wearing—they're from years ago, aren't they?"
Her voice wasn't loud, but it was just enough for those nearby to hear.
Some people started whispering, "So she's just a nanny. No wonder she dresses so plainly, and her bag doesn't even look like a designer one."
"I watched A Good Family a few days ago. It said she left home out of jealousy, abandoning her son. Now it seems that's true—otherwise, how else could she have ended up as a nanny?"
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