I always believed my daughter’s wedding would be the proudest day of my life. I pictured her walking down the aisle, radiant in white, and thought of all the nights I had stayed awake just to make sure she had everything she needed. I raised Emily alone, and every sacrifice I made — every skipped meal, every extra shift — felt worth it when I saw her smile.
When she told me she was getting married, I cried tears of joy. I imagined sitting in the front row, watching her start her new life, feeling like I had finally done something right. But instead of pride, that day brought me one of the most painful moments I’ve ever endured — not because of strangers, but because of her new in-laws.
I was only twenty-three when Emily was born. Her father, Tom, left six months later, saying he “wasn’t ready for responsibility.” It was devastating, but I didn’t have time to fall apart. I had a baby depending on me. My parents had already passed away, and Tom’s family wanted nothing to do with us. From then on, it was just me and Emily — two people against the world.
I worked long hours as a nurse’s assistant, barely getting by. Still, I made sure Emily never went without. When she wanted piano lessons, I cleaned the teacher’s house in exchange. When her school organized a trip to Washington, D.C., I picked up double shifts until I could pay for it. When she was accepted to college out of state, I drained my savings so she could go. Life wasn’t easy, but love carried us through.
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