Three days before the wedding, during the final fitting of my dress, the phone rang. “Ellie.” Just two syllables, and I knew exactly who it was. But we hadn’t spoken in eight years. The last time I saw him, he was at the prenatal clinic, guiding her through the door. “What do you want?” I kept my voice flat, professional. The sharp intake of breath on the other end was audible, and his voice came back, strained and urgent: “Ellie, I heard you’re getting married. Can you let me see your mother?” “The three of us. A family reunion.” A reunion? I lowered my head, my fingers automatically touching the silver locket hidden beneath the lace. Inside, two small, laminated black-and-white photos: my mother and me. I gave a short, brittle laugh. “You want to see my mother? Wait until you’re dead.” 1 I hung up, and Jack stepped out of the fitting room. He saw the locket open on my chest and his warm smile faded just a touch. “Thinking about your mom again?” He drew me into his embrace, his hug gentle but with a subtle, cautious probe in his voice. “It’s been so many years, El. Are you sure you don’t want to invite your father to the wedding?” My body stiffened in his arms, turning instantly cold. “He stopped being my father eight years ago.” “But—” Jack started to say something more, but my phone rang again. It was my grandmother. She said Victor—my father, Victor Hayes—had somehow found out about the wedding. He was hounding her, demanding to be there. She asked if I wanted to tell him the truth about Mom. My face felt like stone. I replied, one word at a time. “Ignore him.” Ever since that day, eight years ago, I haven’t had a father. Grandma simply hummed, not pressing the issue. But right before she hung up, she sighed, a sound worn smooth by time and grief. “Ellie, honey, the things that happened back then… it wasn’t easy for your dad, either.” Grandma had forgiven him. My eyes burned, and I almost laughed aloud—a harsh, ugly sound I barely managed to swallow. I didn’t understand. My mother was the one who was betrayed, thrown out of her home, and ultimately, who died of a broken heart. Eight years later, how could anyone say he was the one who didn’t have it easy? Was it just because he was my father? Because of some flimsy, so-called blood tie? What a joke. I ended the call, changed out of the beautiful silk wedding dress, grabbed my car keys, and headed for the door. Jack followed me out, his expression worried. “Ellie, where are you going? Not back to the hotel?” “No. To the cemetery. To see my mother.” The black Audi pulled up to the gates of Evergreen Cemetery. I got out, bought a bunch of lilies—Mom’s favorite—and knelt expertly before the tombstone in the third row, seventh plot. “Mom, I’m here.” I carefully arranged the lilies in front of the smooth granite, then tugged on Jack’s arm. “This is your son-in-law, Jack Dawson. We’re getting married the day after tomorrow.” I paused, pressing down the sob that threatened to rise. “And Mom, he came looking for me.” “Grandma said he wants to attend the wedding. I said no.” “Don’t worry. I will never forgive him for you.” “I miss you, Mom.” I spoke softly, my hand brushing away a stray piece of dust from the engraving. It revealed a face that was a softer version of my own—gentle, smiling. It was a photo from her happiest day. My father’s company had just gone public; I had just been accepted into my dream university. At my acceptance party, the photographer had captured the unconcealed pride and love in her eyes as she looked at my father and me. It was her most joyful image, the one that spanned years of sacrifice. None of us could have known then that this photograph would be the one etched onto her tombstone, just eight years later. 2 On the drive back, I leaned my head against the cold glass, letting the wind dry the dampness in the corners of my eyes. Jack, trying hard to soothe me, racked his brain for jokes to make me smile. My mouth lifted slightly, and I was about to speak when my eyes caught something sharp and unwelcome. A man was pacing near the entrance of our hotel. “What are you doing here!” My body instantly bristled, all sharp edges. I slammed the car door and charged at him, demanding an answer. Victor Hayes saw me, and the tentative smile on his face immediately crumpled into a look of raw distress. “I… I just wanted to see you.” “I’m your father. You’re getting married, and of course I should—” “You are not my father!” I cut him off, spinning around and pulling Jack sharply toward the hotel lobby. “If you have an ounce of decency left, don’t ever let me see your face again.” In the reflection of the glass doors, I saw Victor take two stumbling steps after me, his voice tearing in the wind. “Ellie! At least tell me… is your mother alright?” I halted for a fraction of a second, then quickly moved on. Alright? She’s dead. So, yes, she’s finally alright. We got to the front desk. I was just about to tell the manager that Victor Hayes was not to be allowed on the property when the manager approached me. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Stone, but your wedding reception hall has been booked by someone else.” “What?” I froze, then the realization hit me like a blow. “He did this, didn’t he?” I didn’t need to say his name. The manager’s face went momentarily pale. “We can’t disclose guest names, ma’am, but the client said that if he could just meet with you and your mother, he would release the venue, free of charge.” Jack looked at me with deep concern. “Ellie, let’s just forget it…” “I’ll call other hotels right now.” I shook my head, already defeated. “It won’t work.” “When he makes up his mind about something, no amount of running or struggling will help.” That was a lesson I learned eight years too late. I took out my phone, hesitated for a long moment, and finally dialed the number I hadn’t deleted. “Ten AM tomorrow. Coffee shop. We meet.” My voice was ice-cold, but Victor on the other end sounded like he’d won the lottery. “Yes! Yes! Ellie, I won’t be late, I promise. Tell me, is your mother still a fan of—” I hung up before he could finish. That evening, Aunt Sophia arrived on a late flight. Eight years ago, she was still studying overseas and learned everything second-hand. Eight years later, the moment she saw me, her eyes were instantly red-rimmed. “How dare that despicable bastard show his face around you?” She gripped my hands, her whole body shaking with rage. “He was the one who disowned you eight years ago! How can he have the nerve to crash your wedding?” “Does he think he deserves it?” “And your mother…” Sophia choked on the name. “How could she be so damn generous? She slaved away, working multiple jobs just to scrimp and save to fund that viper’s startup.” “And then, when he finally made it big, the first thing he did was cheat, find a mistress, and break your mother’s heart until it stopped.” “Your mother was only forty years old when she died!” Sophia was sobbing uncontrollably. I just stood there, silent. Because she was right. My mother was too selfless. When she married my father, he was just a broke street kid—a nobody who barely had two pennies to rub together. His mother had died young, and his father was a gambler; his life was a total wreck. But my mother was a fool. Because he saved her once from a mugging on the way home from school, she gave him her whole heart. At eighteen, they had their first time. At twenty-two, they got married and had their first and only child—me. At forty, I got into college, and he cheated. The most hateful thing he ever said to her was: “I might be shameless, but you slept with me when you were eighteen. What right do you have to judge me?” That was the first time I saw utter despair in my mother’s eyes. The pain in that gaze was so deep that eight years later, I still woke up from nightmares, regretting what I did. Regretting that I ever told her about his affair. 3 I first discovered my father’s affair at my college acceptance party. It should have been the happiest day of my mother’s life. My father’s company was listed on the stock exchange; I was off to my dream school. The smile never left her face for the entire night. Until I used the excuse of needing fresh air to slip onto the balcony to text a friend. Just a few feet away, my father was locked in a tight embrace with a woman. I knew that woman. She was my mother’s best friend, her confidante for eighteen years. The first fancy party dress I ever owned was a gift from her. I froze on the spot, my mind a blank slate. The next thing I knew, a piercing scream, raw and bloody, tore out of me. My mother rushed over, worried. When she saw the scene, her soul shattered. I heard her ask my father: “Why?” “Why her?” The woman she had treated like a sister for nearly two decades. “And why today?” On our daughter’s big day. I don’t remember much after that. I only remember the lights in our house stayed on all night. My father smoked, lighting one cigarette after another. My mother sat lifelessly on the sofa, her makeup smeared and streaked. They made a pact: my father would cut ties with the other woman, and my mother would pretend nothing happened for my sake, so my education wouldn’t be affected. My mother, naïve as she was, still believed they could start over. Until the second time. My mother came home from grocery shopping. The bedroom door was slightly ajar, and the two of them were tangled up, half-dressed. On the nightstand right next to the bed sat our family photo—the three of us, smiling. That was the moment she completely lost it. She flung the groceries at them, smashing every single photo frame in the house. My father just stood there, watching her, shielding the other woman with his body. “Caroline, stop this ridiculous scene and close the door.” “Ellie will be home soon. It wouldn’t look good.” He remembered I was coming home, yet when he was with that woman, he didn’t even bother to close the door. I wasn’t told what happened next. I only knew my mother wanted a divorce and asked if I would go with her. Of course, I said yes. I had seen the evidence of his betrayal with my own eyes. I couldn’t bear to live under the same roof as him. To stick up for my mom, I even dragged a couple of friends to the mistress’s house. I called her a homewrecker, trashed her living room, and warned her never to show her face to my mom again. But my father struck back, and quickly. He didn’t hurt me. He just called the police for her and hired the best lawyer in town. “Even though you’re my daughter, the mother is to blame for the child’s mistakes. You dared to bully Aunt Vanessa, so your mother will have to apologize for you.” “This is a small warning. If it happens again, I won’t spare you, even if you are my child.” I will never forget that day I was left alone at the precinct. My mother rushed over, hysterical, and—in front of the police officers—she knelt before that woman. She bent low, her palms raw from digging her nails into them, kneeling before my father and Vanessa Pierce. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t raise my daughter properly.” “She’s still young. She needs to go to college. She can’t have a record. Please, let her go.” “I promise… I will teach her better. She won’t cause trouble again.” “Please.” That was the first time—the absolute first time—I wished my father dead. But my wish didn’t come true. He went on living perfectly fine. Even worse, after that incident, he stopped trying to hide his affair. He started bringing that woman home frequently, asking me to call her "Stepmom" right in front of my mother. He didn’t care that my mother cried all night, every night. He didn’t care that the hatred in my eyes grew daily. He was entirely consumed by his extramarital life. Then, a month later, my mother, distracted and distraught, was in a car accident. That was the first time I saw my father cry. 4 I remember it was the last private room on the hospital floor. My mother was asleep, sedated by the anesthetic. My father held her hand, his eyes red-rimmed. “Caroline, let’s stop fighting, okay?” “We’ll go back to how we were. We’ll be a proper family again.” My mother must have heard him, for a single tear slipped from the corner of her eye. She said nothing. After that day, my father was like a different person. He never mentioned that woman, and he stopped staying out all night. He came to the hospital every day at 8 AM sharp to accompany my mother to her checkups and would push her wheelchair around the garden in the afternoon. He seemed to have reverted to the good husband and father he used to be. My mother still wouldn’t speak to him, but she didn’t chase him away either. Then one evening, she quietly asked me: “Ellie, do you want a whole family again?” I knew she still couldn’t let go. In the past, I would have instantly refused, listing a dozen reasons why men never truly change. But her car accident had been so severe; she had nearly died. Seeing her frail, thin body, I couldn’t bring myself to hurt her again. So I said: “Whatever you decide, Mom.” Things seemed to be slowly improving. Until the day the doctor asked me to take my mother to the third floor for a CT scan. My father was coming out of the Obstetrics and Gynecology department, supporting that woman. My mother broke down again. She screamed, demanding to know if he wasn't going to be a good husband, if he wasn't ashamed that that woman was pregnant! The smile froze on my father’s face. He suddenly stepped forward and slapped my mother across the face, snarling: “I’m shameless? You slept with me when you were eighteen! What right do you have?” A surge of hot blood rushed to my head. I felt like a rabid animal, wanting to tear apart the bad people who were hurting my mother. But I was too weak. I couldn’t fight a forty-something-year-old man. I was slapped so hard two of my teeth chipped, and my nose wouldn’t stop bleeding. My mother panicked, desperate to protect me even though she was confined to a wheelchair. In the end, Victor Hayes won. He put his arm around the startled Vanessa, threw down two words— “I want a divorce!”—and stormed off. My face swollen and stinging, I watched the nurses rush my mother into the operating room. Her wounds had burst open. She was hemorrhaging, and they couldn’t stop the bleeding. ... Soon after, the divorce papers were mailed to the hospital. Grandma rushed from her country home to help me deal with Mom’s funeral arrangements. Mimicking my mother’s handwriting, I signed the divorce agreement in her name. That was exactly eight years ago. A knock on the guest room door startled me. It was Jack, asking my aunt and me to come down for dinner. I was busy searching for a tissue to wipe away my tears when my phone rang, a frantic, urgent sound. It was the hotel front desk number. I thought there was another issue with the wedding venue and quickly answered. But the voice on the other end was Victor Hayes, trembling. “Ellie, why did the hotel staff say… that your mother is gone…”
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