Still, I went.
I told myself it was the grown-up thing to do. The loving thing. The daughter thing. On the wedding day, surrounded by smiles, champagne, and gentle music, I kept repeating the same lie in my head.
This is just grief. Just two broken people finding solace.
Then Robert arrived late, eyes frantic, jacket half on. He grabbed my arm.
“Claire. We need to talk. Now.”
Before I could ask what was wrong, he said the words that shattered everything.
“You don’t really know who Dad is.”
He didn’t slow down until we were nearly outside. The music softened behind us. Laughter spilled through the open doors. Someone clinked a glass in celebration. It felt grotesque.
“What’s going on?” I whispered sharply. “You missed the ceremony. You look like you ran here.”
“I almost didn’t come,” he said. His hand trembled when he finally released my arm. “I was told not to.”
“Told by who?”
Robert glanced back toward the reception hall, then lowered his voice. “Mom.”
Read more on the next page >>
For more detailed instructions, please click the button below (>) and follow us on Facebook.
