My stepmother thought she had everything figured out when she kept me indoors so I couldn’t reach the altar. A single, insignificant detail that she overlooked wrecked her perfect day.
Hold on tight. This is still unbelievable to me.
I’m thirty years old. My dad is sixty-one years old. About three months ago, he also told me that he was getting married again.
“To Dana!” he exclaimed with a teenager’s eagerness. We are planning a modest wedding. Only close friends and relatives.
Dana. Fifty-something. appears to be wearing high heels that are bonded to her feet. She sounds like she’s pitching something every time. I can assure you that she is 70% Botox and 30% bad energy.
I didn’t despise Dana. I made an effort. Really, really made an effort. Her jokes made me chuckle. even the ones that were illogical. I grinned as I ate each tasteless, overdone casserole. One Christmas, I bought her a lovely scarf.
It was never worn by her.
She made it obvious right away that I wasn’t welcome. Of course, not completely. It would have been too forthright. In a thousand small ways, though.
Dana would act strangely whenever Dad and I were reestablishing our relationship, such as when we were laughing at dumb movies or reminiscing about the past. She would begin to cough. Say she had a migraine instead. She even once reported having food illness twice in one week.
My father used to say, “Honey, she’s just sensitive.” You are aware of her stomach’s condition.
My dad used to say, “She’s just sensitive, honey.” You know what’s going on with her stomach.
Yes, quite sensitive about avoiding attention.
She treated me like a ghost rather than like a daughter. Not even a person. It was merely a relic of a life she chose not to confront. However, I did show up. every holiday. every birthday. every Sunday.
Then Dad made the crucial decision.
“We’re going on a date!” he said. “Next month! Dana and I are getting married!
I pretended to smile as I whispered over the phone, “That’s great, Dad.” “I’m happy for you.”
She wants to maintain a low profile. You know what a person she is. just those in close proximity.
“Of course,” I replied. “Whatever makes you two happy.”
I never got an invitation. Avoid texting. Not a card. Dana hasn’t answered. But I didn’t really think about it. She was just being herself, I thought. I still wanted to support my dad.
I bought a simple powder-blue outfit. wore a pair of little heels with it. In order to get there early and help, I took Friday off from work. Maybe set up chairs or something.
Two weeks before the wedding, Dad called.
“Dana says you should stay with us,” he told me. “There is no justification for paying for a hotel.”
That got me to thinking.
“That’s her statement?” I asked.
“Yes,” she emphasized. asserted that she wished to simplify things for you.
“Okay,” I answered. “I will be present on Friday night.” And so was I. I got there shortly after seven o’clock.
Dana partly smiled and opened the door.
“Distance,” she asked.
“Not too bad,” I said as I dragged my bags inside.
She handed me a mug of lukewarm tea and gestured toward the guest room.
The restroom is located down the hall. Don’t wake us up since tomorrow is a huge day.
She disappeared into her room. A few minutes later, Dad came out in sweats and slippers.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said, pulling me into a hug. “I’m glad you made it.”
We talked all night long. On the couch, the two of us reminisced about road trips and the day our old car broke down in Kentucky.
When I went to bed at midnight, I felt fine. even optimistic. I had no idea what lay ahead.
When I woke up the next morning, I was excited to see my dad get married, even if I was a little nervous. Regardless of my feelings for Dana, he still appreciated this day.
I rolled over and grabbed my phone.
Lost.
Odd. Was it okay if I left it on the kitchen counter? Before going to bed, I seem to remember plugging it in.
No phone. No coffee. There is no fragrance of breakfast. Not a sound. It felt dead all around.
I looked at the crucial hook. empty. I felt my stomach sink a bit.
I turned the handle of the entrance door after walking over there. It remained stationary. There was a deadbolt locked. I attempted the rear entrance. The same thing. Next, the windows. They were all securely locked.
I yelled, “Dana?”
Nothing. I rapped on the door of her bedroom. Quiet.
Make the knock louder. “Dana? Hi there?
Nothing has changed.
I saw it at that moment. There’s a bright yellow Post-it note on the kitchen counter, nicely placed. written with curled, too-hard letters in Dana’s handwriting.
Dad left the condo a few weeks later. Before Dana could even unpack her outfit, he filed for annulment. “I saw her for who she really was because of you,” he added, glancing at me over dinner one evening.
For years, I was portrayed as challenging. sentimental. Someone who causes difficulties. However, none of those things applied to me. All I was doing was trying to keep my lone remaining parent safe.
In other cases, being the antagonist in someone else’s fairy tale simply indicates that you were the protagonist in your own.
Furthermore, I will never regret showing up.