While my daughter Michelle worked double shifts at the hospital, I was the steady presence in my granddaughter Lizzie’s life. I packed her lunchboxes, did her hair, and tucked her in with stories of brave girls who saved themselves. She called me “Mama” before she ever said “Mom,” and I loved her fiercely.

Years later, Lizzie moved to the city and called me every Sunday, proud of her success. Then one Saturday, Michelle told me Lizzie was getting married—but I hadn’t received an invitation. When I called Lizzie, she said coldly, “I didn’t send you one. You couldn’t afford the $2000 guest contribution.”

I was crushed. The little girl who watched me clip coupons and counted quarters was now asking thousands just to attend her wedding. Worse was the sting of rumors from my neighbor Mandy, who said Lizzie was ashamed of me, worried I’d look out of place next to her fiancé’s wealthy family.

That evening, a limousine pulled up. Lizzie and her fiancé stood on my doorstep, nervous but sincere. “I’m so sorry,” she said, tears in her eyes. “I wanted to surprise you. There’s no guest contribution. You’re not just invited—you’re the guest of honor.”

At the wedding two weeks later, surrounded by elegance, I sat in the front row wearing the dress Lizzie bought me. When she smiled as she walked down the aisle, I knew I hadn’t lost her. She was still my Lizzie, and I was still her Mama.