Morning sunlight filtered through stained glass, splashing a rainbow over my white gown. I smiled at my reflection in the mirror. Today was my wedding day.
“You look radiant, Esther,” Lia said, adjusting my veil. My heart soared. “I can’t believe it’s finally here,” I replied.
Helping me into my wheelchair, she squeezed my hand. Despite lifelong self-consciousness, I refused to let it dim my joy. “Kevin loves you just as you are,” Lia assured me.
We met six months ago in a support group—both disabled, instantly connected. For the first time, I felt truly seen.
A knock startled us. “It’s time,” my mother called. My father began to push me down the aisle, and Kevin’s smile filled me with hope.
At the altar, Dad kissed my cheek. “I’m sorry I wasn’t always there.” Tears brimmed. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
Just as the priest began, Dad burst in. “The wedding is off! You don’t know who this man really is!” he shouted, hurling accusations at Kevin of fraud.
Then he flung boiling water—actually just cold—onto Kevin’s legs. Kevin stood up, perfectly able. Dad laughed grimly. “He’s been lying about his disability.”
My heart shattered as Kevin was arrested for fraud. Hours later, Dad explained: he’d seen Kevin walking earlier and found no honeymoon booking, so he hired a PI—Kevin had scammed other women before.
Through tears, Dad hugged me. “You’re not to blame. We lost sight of what truly matters.” He offered ice cream. I managed a watery laugh. “That sounds perfect.”
Weeks later, I painted a phoenix in my art studio, the symbol of new beginnings. As Mom invited us to cook together, nostalgia and healing filled me.
Though my wedding failed, my healing journey had begun—with family, art, and the realization that love had been there all along.