The reception hall glowed under strings of soft fairy lights, the air full of gentle music, warm laughter, and the hum of celebration. It was the happiest day of my life. My new husband was at the bar chatting with friends, my mother was wiping away tears, and Daniel—my stepfather—sat quietly at our table, folding his napkin the way he always did, calm and thoughtful.
He had given me more than I could ever repay. And as I stood to give my wedding speech, ready to thank those who helped make the day possible, something unexpected happened.
My biological father stood up first.
He had arrived late and had already finished two glasses of wine. Glass raised, voice too loud, he said, “From the day she was born, I dreamed of giving her a beautiful wedding. And today, I made that happen. Because that’s what dads do.”
I froze. For a second, I wasn’t in a wedding dress—I was a little girl again. The girl he left behind.
He had been absent through every milestone. He missed birthdays, school plays, my high school graduation. He made occasional appearances—sporadic calls, the occasional card, a gift that sometimes never arrived. But he was never present, never part of the real work of parenting.
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