I get it. He’s probably freaking out because this entire operation just broke every part of his security protocol. I’d be panicking, too, if I were in his shoes.

Fiona, never one to tiptoe around when a direct hit will do, turns toward Hamish. “Well?” she demands, voice tight. “Let's have it oot, son. Ye've done a lot o' damage and acted the fool.”

Hamish sits up straighter beside me, his hand finding mine under the table.

“I will never, ever, ever leave ye in yer heart,” he says quietly to her, reaching out with his other hand for hers. “But ye’ve got ta stop tryin’ ta control me with fear.”

Fiona blinks. Her mouth opens, then shuts. For one whole second, the woman is stunned into silence.

Which is how I know he hit the mark.

Tears fill Fiona's eyes. "Wha–what d'ye–I ken that!"

"I dinna think ye do, Mum. I think ye think ye do, but ye dinna feel it in yer bones.

We all love ye sae much. To the tips o' ma toes and the crown o' ma head, and ye ken that's a long mile.

Yer ma mither and no one could ever replace ye.

I'll be in yer life forever. Ye'll be ma bairns' grandma.

But ye and Da chose yer destiny together.

Ye need ta afford me and Amy the same respect and space. "

"I just–"

"No, Mum. Lemme speak. Da told us about yer childhood."

She whips around. "Fergus!" she cries out, alarmed. "How much did ye spill?"

"Enough to make me understand better," Hamish says softly before poor Fergus can respond. "Ye never kept it a secret ye were in the system."

"Aye," she says tightly, eyes going narrow, her posture defensive and cold. “Six families. One care home."

I don't know what a care home is, but I'm guessing it's like a group home in the U.S. Which means my future mother-in-law spent seven years going in and out of placements, never finding a forever family.

I wish I'd known.

"Da told us how ye met. Buyin' ice cream. Askin' fer a job. Sleepin' in the van.”

"Oh, Fergus, why'd ye tell him?" she moans. "That's all in the past. I'm not that sad little lass anymore."

"Fiona," Fergus says with great affection, and it's not the beers talking. "Ye were never a sad little lass. Ye've always been ma big-hearted fighter."

Her chin begins to quiver. Mine, too.

"Ye met Da. Had me and the rest. Made yerself a place where everyone needs ye. I need ye, Mum. I do," Hamish says.

"Ye have a terrible way of showin' it, Hamish, shuttin' me out of my own son's weddin'."

"Ye shut me out too, Mum.”

"What? I did no such thing."

"Ye did," he persists. "Ye never tell me how ye feel about anythin' but ma career. I didna ken ye had such a terrible past. Ye deserved a loving mum like the one ye've been to me, Darren, Cora, Ian, Matthew, Pookie, Brick, and Maggie. And ye shoulda had a great father like Da."

Fergus's grin threatens to turn his lips into a group hug.

"We dinna need ta air ma laundry in a pub, Hamish," she scoffs, but she sniffs at the same time.

"We're dealt the hand we're dealt in life and we make the best of it.

I did. And it's ma job ta keep this family together.

Ye're trying to pull away." Her voice cracks at the end.

"And Amy," she adds, looking at me, "it's no' yer fault he loves ye.

And yer no' the reason he's leavin' me, but did ye have ta be American? Could ye no’ at least be Irish so ma grandbairns can be on the same continent?

" She shudders. "Or I’d even take English.”

I can tell she's making the joke to break the tension, but more to take the spotlight off her past and how it shapes her behavior now. She isn't my mother, so I follow Hamish's lead.

"Mum, ye and Marie canna do this. Ye dinna get ta live through us ta have the weddin’ ye wanted. We're independent people, and we refuse ta put up wi' yer nonsense."

"I was trying to give you a better wedding than I got!" My mom says loudly, scooching over to sit next to Fiona. They've formed an alliance, which means this isn't going to be as easy as Hamish thinks. "You don't have children. You don't understand."

"I know Grandma Celeste ruined your wedding, Mom," I say softly. Mom isn't at all like Fiona. When I bring up the past, she shakes her head.

And crumples.

"It was so terrible! Everything was about her. She stole my wedding dress–she got married to Kirby at my own wedding! Then left us with all the bills because she put the deposits in my name."

Fiona rears back and looks at Marie with horror. "Yer own mum did that ta ye?"

"Aye!" Mom answers. "I mean, yes!"

"What we've done is naught compared to that," Fiona says with a snort. "They should be grateful fer us, not scoldin' us like we're wee bairns!"

"Mum,” Hamish says flatly. "A cop brought ye to us in the backseat of his car, zip tied, ready fer jail."

Fiona presses her lips together.

A few seconds pass, then stretch into a minute, Mom and Fiona looking at Fergus, Dad, Hamish, and me like they're waiting to be given instructions.

It's Matt who clears his throat first.

"Did you know that part of a child's DNA stays inside the mother long after giving birth? When we talk about the deep bonds of motherhood, it’s actually cellular. Genomic. It’s not just heartfelt and emotional, it's biological."

Mom and Fiona nod, instantly liking him.

"At the same time, children have a natural instinct to separate from their parents. Curiosity is innate. We need autonomy. Roots and wings. You two mothers have worked very hard to give Hamish and Amy deep, deep roots. Your love has shaped them, for the better."

Dad leans in. Fergus has a sip.

"Having two loving parents who are always present is less common than it should be these days.

Children thrive on stability, attention, presence.

Belonging. And it sounds like Fiona and Marie had issues with their families of origin that were…

suboptimal. And that negative experience made you both decide, quite young, that you would do better by your own children. "

"Yes!" Fiona says, giving Hamish's shoulder a whack. "Tha's what I'm sayin'! Listen ta the priest."

"Minister," Matt corrects her, but with a smile. "That effort to do better is such an expression of love. And do you know what else is an expression of love, Fiona and Marie?"

They're listening with bated breath.

Matt pauses. The man is a master orator, eloquent and sensitive, connected to the pulse of the moment. I see why he's popular at weddings. Finally, he says to the mothers:

"An apology."

"Right?" Mom agrees, looking at me pointedly. "We really do deserve one."

"Aye," Fiona says to Hamish. "Listen ta the man o' the cloth. Straight from his mouth ta God's ears."

"No," Matt says quietly, but he has such a commanding presence that both moms halt and turn to him. "No, Marie and Fiona. I meant that you owe your children an apology."

There’s a long silence after Matt speaks. The kind that stretches like a held breath. I can feel everyone bracing, me included, for what comes next.

We're close to turning blue.

Mom opens her mouth first.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt her. I was trying to mother her,” she says, voice wobbling but still defensive. “That’s what moms do. We plan. We help. We guide. We fix. That’s not a crime.”

"Says the woman who was just in the back of a police car,” Hamish says.

“It felt like a crime,” I whisper before I can stop myself. “Emotional pickpocketing.”

Fiona huffs. “Och, for heaven’s sake. This is what motherin’ is! This is how it’s done! You give everythin’— everythin’ —to yer children, and then ye make sure they dinna mess it all up!”

Hamish rubs his temples like he’s trying to massage out a lifetime of maternal intensity. “Mum, that’s not motherin’. That’s smotherin’. There’s a difference.”

Fiona’s eyes flash. “An’ how’m I supposed tae know the difference when I never had a good mum tae show me what’s right?”

The words burst out of her like a cork finally dislodged from a bottle under pressure. She slaps a hand over her mouth, looking stunned. I don’t think she meant to say it.

But her pain sure did.

Marie gasps softly, one hand reaching across the table to take Fiona’s. “I didn’t, either.”

The air shifts. What was unspoken has been spoken. Truth, unvarnished and raw, rolls between them like fog, thick and impossible to ignore.

But it has to be cleared to see each other fully.

Both women are crying now. Quiet, unsteady tears that break through years of performance and pageantry.

Fiona leans into my mom, head tilting slightly toward her shoulder.

Marie pats her awkwardly, then leans back, eyes brimming.

“I thought I was doing what Amy needed. What would make her happy and make me needed. So she could be the center of attention in a way I never was.” She blinks and looks down.

"I - I think I did that with my other girls, too. " Her eyes widen, taking it all in.

“I wanted to give him somethin’ permanent.

A weddin’, a big one. Maybe I wanted it more than him.

But I dinna ken how else ta keep him close now.

I'm losin' ma eldest, ma first baby, the one who taught me how ta be a mum, and if I can lose Hamish, I can lose ma other kids, and then Fergus is sae much older than me and I just…”

I glance over at Hamish, whose face is tight with emotion. His jaw works, but no sound comes. His hand tightens on mine under the table, and I know what that squeeze means.

He wants to fix this.

All of it.

But this is not something a son can fix.

Fiona sniffles. “I didna want to be this kind of mum. I wanted ta be better.”

“You are better,” Hamish says, his voice low and rough. “But love isn’t measured in control. It’s measured in trust.”

Marie covers her face. “I didn’t trust Amy to know what she wanted. That’s awful. I was trying so hard to make her wedding perfect because mine was so… I guess I thought I could undo it by getting hers right.”