My Son's Wedding – September 8, 2001
by Marie Shields © 2006
It's after midnight when the phone in rings. "Mom, can I pick you up for breakfast in the morning? Just the two of us," he says.
On his wedding day? Sure, his bride was a little testy at the rehearsal, but that's to be expected. She called his father 'stupid' when he asked for the third time when exactly he was supposed to say his piece in the ceremony.
I followed my son out to the garden. The vein in the middle of his forehead stood out, like his dad's does when he's angry. He said he was going to have a talk with his future wife and let her know her behavior was totally unacceptable.
Brides. His sisters were worse.
"Honey, you might want to let this one go for now," I said. "Women are like that sometimes. She just wants everything to be perfect. It's a big deal for her."
"It's a big deal for me too. She needs to know she can't talk to anyone in my family like that."
I look across the breakfast table at him. He's smiling, but his eyes well with tears. I know it embarrasses him. I reach for him and take his hand. "It's okay," I say. And it is, always has been okay with me, whatever he does. My favorite child. My favorite person.
"She had a complete meltdown when we got to the car last night. I couldn't say anything to her. I just wanted her to stop crying and be happy again."
I squeeze his hand. "So you let it go."
"I let it go." He's quiet for a minute. "I wanted you to know. She makes me happy, Mom. I want to be with her. I don't want to hurt her just because she made a mistake. Please don't think it's because I don't love my family. Do you think sometimes when the people you love most makes a mistake, it makes you realize how much you really love them?"
"I know it does."
The wedding went off without a hitch. Families and friends from both sides danced and partied at the reception all night long. If anyone looked more radiant than the bride it was my son.
Around nine in the evening on September tenth the airport shuttle picked them up to take them to Portland International Airport. Their flight to Heathrow would depart around midnight with layovers in Chicago and New York.
It was a long fifty hours later that we learned they were not on any of the planes that went down September eleventh. We sat glued to the television watching the twin tower go down again and again. We called the airlines, but couldn't get any information about them. We didn't have a flight number and had no idea where they would be staying in London or anywhere else on their three-week honeymoon in Europe.
My son called the morning of the thirteenth. "I didn't think you'd be worried, Mom. The planes that went down were flying to LAX, not Europe."
Had they said that on the news? Had I somehow not heard it? Why didn't the airlines tell us that? Why hadn't we asked the right questions?
'Overwhelmed with relief' doesn't begin to capture how I felt. I was giddy with joy for about an hour. Then I turned the television back on. What kind of person was I to feel such elation in the face of such horrible tragedy? Five years later, I still have mixed emotions of guilt and gratitude.