Five years after my wife’s death, my daughter and I attended my best friend’s wedding. As he lifted the bride’s veil, my world shattered. My daughter whispered, “Dad, why are you crying?” The bride looked at me—and everything fell apart.
I’d been dragged to the party by Mark, thinking it could pull me out of my funk. Exhausted from work, I felt out of place among the guests— until I saw Natalie. She wasn’t supposed to be there; she’d dropped by for a friend. Our eyes met, and a spark ignited instantly.
Though warned about her wealthy family, I introduced myself, and we talked for hours. Genuine and warm, she confided that her parents would hate me—but she didn’t care. We married six months later after her family disowned her.
We settled modestly, I worked construction by day and studied design by night, and Natalie worked at a gallery. I believed we were happy—until Emma was born. Natalie began resenting our humble life, comparing us to her college friends, longing for more. Our arguments escalated until one day she left—leaving Emma and a note asking for a divorce. I tried to find her, even at her parents’ mansion, but they barred me. She surrendered custody, and divorce papers followed swiftly. Two days later, they called to say she’d died in a car crash. I mourned without closure.
I buried myself in work, earned a design degree, and launched my own firm. Emma thrived. Five years passed. Then we attended Stefan’s seaside wedding. As the bride approached and he lifted her veil, tears streamed down my face. Emma asked why I was crying—and there she stood: Natalie. Alive, in a wedding dress, about to marry Stefan, my best friend. She froze and fled; Stefan chased her but failed.
In a hallway, I confronted her. I asked why she faked her death. She said her father orchestrated everything and believed I’d be better off. Betrayed, I realized I wasn’t broken anymore. I had Emma and my career. I’d built a life despite her deception—and finally, I felt free.