My dad never liked parties. He was always the guy who quietly slipped into the kitchen. But at my engagement party, he was beaming — not at me, but at Lenora. My future mother-in-law.
I first got suspicious when she placed a napkin on his lap, then leaned in and cooed, “Aren’t you cold, Frank?”
From across the table, in my dream dress, I felt like an extra in a play called Dating Over Fifty. And it only got weirder.
Lenora and Dad disappeared for ten minutes. When they returned, she chirped about “romantic lighting.” I brushed it off, convinced it was harmless.
Then Lenora showed up at my apartment. “I’m getting married!” she beamed. “Let’s do a joint wedding! It’ll be symbolic!”
I reluctantly agreed — as long as everything stayed on my terms.
The bachelorette party was actually fun. For a moment, I felt bad for suspecting her. Until I asked who her fiancé was.
She smiled. “You’ll see. We’re family now.”
On my wedding day, Dad was missing. The music stopped. Lenora appeared in her dress, smiling.
“Aubrey,” she said, “your father has a more important role today.”
And there he was. Standing beside her. The groom.
I froze. Mom exploded. The truth came out: they were already divorced. Lenora had proposed. They hid it — for my sake.
“You stole my day,” I told them. “You turned it into a soap opera.”
I ran.
But Silas found me. “That’s their drama. Not ours,” he said.
So I returned.
“To anyone here for a wedding — welcome,” I said into the mic. “If you prefer family drama, Netflix is down the hall.”
I made Dad walk me down the aisle.
We got married.
Lenora and Dad ate salad in the corner. It wasn’t perfect.
But it was real. And finally, honest.
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