Twelve years after my marriage fell apart, I was still carrying the bitterness like a stone in my chest. My ex-husband’s wife — the woman I blamed for destroying everything — was the one face I refused to tolerate. So when my daughter’s wedding day approached, I made one request: she was not to be invited. This was my daughter’s day. I didn’t want old wounds turning it into a battlefield.
But on the morning of the ceremony, when my ex arrived, she was right beside him. He didn’t even look ashamed. “Wherever I go, my wife goes,” he said with that familiar stubbornness. I snapped back immediately, “I’m the bride’s mother. I don’t want her here.”
She didn’t argue. She didn’t defend herself. She just offered a small, quiet smile and stepped away, leaving us to our tension. I thought her absence from the room meant victory — that I’d finally drawn a line she wouldn’t cross. But the day had other plans.
Minutes before the ceremony, a scream cut through the hallway. My daughter’s scream. I ran, my heels slipping on the polished floor. I found her in the bridal suite, surrounded by scattered petals, a ruined bouquet, and a torn hem that had snagged on a chair. She wasn’t hurt, but she stood trembling, tears streaking down her makeup. The pressure of the day had finally cracked through her calm exterior.
When she saw me, she collapsed into my arms. “Mom, I just want peace today,” she whispered. “Please… please help me.”
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