My daughter has broken my heart. I believed she understood gratitude, that at 25, she was capable of recognising truth, distinguishing kindness from indifference. But her actions proved me wrong—bitterly and painfully wrong. She didn’t invite her stepfather, my husband Victor, to her wedding, even though he had raised her from the age of nine, putting his heart into every step she took. Yet, she invited her biological father, who had neglected her all these years. After such an act of betrayal, I have no desire to attend this wedding.
The divorce from my first husband, Oliver, was as inevitable as a storm after calm. The last four years of our marriage lasted only due to my endurance and his mother’s pleas to bear with her wayward son. But there are limits to patience, and mine overflowed when our daughter, Lucy, turned seven. Her father always put the family last. He engaged with her only when slightly tipsy—before the alcohol rendered him oblivious. He would vanish for days, and upon his return, assert his correctness with his fists, leaving bruises not just on my skin but also on my heart.
Discovering his mistress was the last straw. The idea that another woman would consider him a “prize” sobered me completely. I filed for divorce without a second glance back. Oliver didn’t even attempt to save the family—he packed his things, shattered the hallway mirror, and left with his head held high, like the hero of some drama. His mother, who had once wept over her “poor boy’s” fate, turned into a veritable witch. She blamed me for everything, trying to convince Lucy that I was the one who drove away her “loving daddy,” even though he had already written us out of his life.
Lucy always reached out more to her father than to me. I was the strict one, teaching and disciplining her, making sure she did her homework. Meanwhile, her father appeared rarely, in a good mood, bearing cheap sweets and hollow promises. When angered, I would shield her from his wrath, standing in his line of fire. Thus, she remembers him as a fairy-tale knight, while I am the constant disciplinarian. Explaining the truth was futile: his mother had poisoned her mind, and Lucy longed for the “kind dad” who, in reality, wasn’t worth a penny. I gritted my teeth and kept battling for her. A year later, his mother died, easing the pressure on Lucy, but she continued to idealise her father and blame me for his absence.
When Lucy was nine, I met Victor in our small town near Bath. I liked him instantly—kind, dependable, with a warm smile. I fell in love, and he felt the same. But afraid of losing him, I warned him honestly: I had a daughter, and she might not accept him; it wouldn’t be easy. Victor didn’t back down. He proposed to me, aware of the challenges ahead. And they began immediately: Lucy threw tantrums, was rude, provoked him at every turn. I thought he might give up—who wants to endure insults and scandals? But he stayed. In sixteen years, he raised his voice at her only twice—and rightfully so. He drove her to competitions, picked her up from parties, bought her clothes, never once reproaching her. He even funded her university education, not her so-called biological father.
During her high school years, Lucy grew calmer towards him. She didn’t attack, but neither did she show gratitude. I hoped she would eventually realise how rare a person Victor was—not every stepfather cares for a child that isn’t his own. I knew she saw Oliver occasionally. I didn’t interfere in their affairs, but each of her birthdays broke my heart: she would wait for his call till midnight, yet he never did. Still, she waited—year after year, as if blind to the truth.
After school, she went to another city to study and, upon returning, moved in with a boyfriend she had been dating since her third year. Then, she announced her wedding plans. I was certain Victor would be there, beside us. But she crossed him off the guest list. He tried to hide his hurt, but I saw the light fade from his eyes. Lucy threw it in my face:
— Dad will be at the wedding. How do you imagine having him and Victor in the same place? Do you want to stage a circus?
Outraged, I replied:
— You’ve invited the father who turned his back on you and excluded the man who raised you? You’re ungrateful! I won’t come to your wedding. From now on, rely on your “dad.”
She tried to speak, but I had already slammed the door.
At home, Victor urged me to reconsider, saying she’s our only daughter, and it’s her day. But I can’t. She made it clear what matters to her. We fought so hard for her, and yet she still idolises the one who abandoned her. So be it. I wash my hands of this pain and disappointment.”
