At 65, I never expected to see my name crossed out on my son’s wedding invitation. Then came the call that changed everything….

My God, Beatrice breathed when I finished. What are you going to do? I glanced at the clock again, nearly 10-1 now. Check my email first, then decide.

My ancient desktop computer took what felt like eternity to boot up. When I finally accessed my email, Rebecca’s message waited with multiple attachments. Beatrice and I huddled together, scanning through damning text messages, financial documents, and photographs of properties that had indeed been sold to finance.

Weddings that never happened. Most disturbing was the audio file. Vanessa’s voice, slurred but unmistakable, laughing about her manipulation of Thomas and her plans for my house proceeds.

The casual cruelty with which she discussed my son, referring to him as easily managed and conveniently estranged from mommy, made my stomach turn. We need to get this to Thomas, Beatrice said urgently. Right now, before he makes the biggest mistake of his life.

I nodded, gathering the pages I’d hastily printed. But he won’t take my calls. He’s blocked my number.

Beatrice considered this for a moment. What about his best man? Andrew, isn’t it? The one who went to college with him? Andy. I corrected, hope flickering.

They’ve been friends since freshman year. Thomas hasn’t spoken much about him lately. But… But Vanessa wouldn’t have been able to completely isolate Thomas from his oldest friend, Beatrice finished.

Not someone in the wedding party. Do you have his number? I did, somewhere in my address book. After a frantic search, I found it and dialed with trembling fingers, praying he hadn’t changed numbers in the years since I’d last contacted him.

The call went to voicemail. I left a brief, urgent message asking him to call me back immediately about Thomas. Then, running out of options and time, I made a decision.

We’re going to the wedding, I said firmly, gathering the printed evidence, into a folder. Not as guests, but to stop it. Beatrice looked skeptical.

They’ll never let you near him. You said the venue has security. Then we’ll find another way, I insisted, a mother’s determination overriding all other considerations.

I will not let that woman destroy my son. As we hurried to the car, the gravity of what we were attempting hit me fully. I was about to possibly humiliate my son on what should have been the happiest day of his life.

Even with evidence, he might not believe me. He might hate me forever for interfering. But the alternative, standing by while he married a woman who saw him as nothing more than a financial resource to be exploited, was unthinkable.

James always said I was too protective, I murmured, as Beatrice navigated morning traffic at decidedly above legal speeds. That I needed to let Thomas make his own mistakes. There’s mistakes, and then there’s catastrophes, Beatrice replied, grimly.

This falls firmly in the latter category. Oak Ridge Estate appeared ahead, its manicured grounds and elegant facade a stark contrast to the emotional turmoil we carried with us. Luxury cars filled the parking area, guests in formal attire already making their way toward the garden where the ceremony would take place.

My heart sank as I spotted a uniformed security guard checking invitations at the entrance. Beatrice parked at the far end of the lot, and we sat for a moment, formulating a plan. The service entrance, I finally suggested.

From my nursing days, there’s always a back way in for deliveries and staff. Beatrice nodded approvingly. Now, you’re thinking like the Ellie I trained with in the ER.

Let’s go. We made our way around the perimeter of the property, trying to look purposeful rather than suspicious in our formal wear. Behind the main building, we found what we were seeking, a utilitarian entrance where catering staff bustled in and out, carrying trays and equipment.

Follow my lead, Beatrice whispered, smoothing her dress and adopting the imperious expression she’d perfected during decades of managing hospital departments. She approached a harried-looking young man in catering attire. Excuse me, we’re looking for the groom’s suite immediately.

Ms. Bradford sent us with an urgent message for Mr. Sullivan. The young man barely glanced at us, too busy balancing about a tray of champagne flutes. Second floor, east wing, but they’re moving to the ceremony site in like five minutes, so hurry.

We slipped inside, navigating the controlled chaos of a high-end wedding in its final preparation stages. Following signs, we located the stairs and ascended quickly, the folder of evidence clutched tightly in my hands. The hallway on the second floor was quiet compared to the activity below, the thick carpet muffling our footsteps as we searched.

For the east wing, a burst of male laughter guided us to a door marked Groom’s Suite. I hesitated, suddenly paralyzed by doubt. What if he doesn’t believe me? I whispered to Beatrice.

What if this only pushes him further away? Beatrice squeezed my hand reassuringly. That’s a risk we have to take. Truth is still truth, Ellie, even when it’s painful, especially when it’s painful.

I took a deep breath and knocked firmly on the door. The door swung open to reveal Andy, handsome in his tuxedo but looking somehow diminished from the exuberant young man who used to spend holidays at our dinner table. His eyes widened in shock at the sight of me.

Mrs. Sullivan? he gasped, stepping into the hallway and pulling the door nearly closed behind him. What are you doing here? Thomas said you weren’t… Andy, please, I interrupted, desperation making my voice quiver. I need to speak with my son immediately.

It’s urgent. He glanced nervously over his shoulder. This isn’t a good time.

We’re heading down for the ceremony in a few minutes and Thomas is already stressed about… It’s about Vanessa, I said bluntly. She’s not who he thinks she is. I have evidence he needs to see before he makes a terrible mistake.

Something flickered across Andy’s face, a shadow of doubt that told me he might not be entirely surprised by my words. Andy? Thomas’s voice called from within. Who’s at the door? Before Andy could respond, the door pulled fully open and my son stood before me.

The sight of him, so handsome in his tuxedo, so like his father, nearly took my breath away. For a moment, he simply stared, disbelief etched across his features. Mom? the word emerged half whispered, as if he might be hallucinating.

Then his expression hardened. What are you doing here? I made it clear you weren’t welcome. The coldness in his voice cut deep, but Rebecca’s revelations gave me courage.

Thomas, please. Just five minutes. There’s something you need to know before the ceremony….