After my divorce, I vowed never to marry again. My world revolved entirely around my daughter, Charlotte.
Then one day, James came into our lives. He was kind, considerate, andmost importantlyhe adored Charlotte. She lit up whenever he was near, and I could see in her bright blue eyes that she trusted him completely.
When he proposed, I hesitated. But Charlotte squeezed my hand and whispered, Mum, please say yes. So, I did.
Our wedding day in London was flawlessuntil the moment Charlotte was meant to walk down the aisle as our flower girl. The music swelled, the guests turned expectantly but she was gone.
Panic set in. We searched frantically, and then, heart pounding, I found herlocked in a storage cupboard, tear-streaked and still clutching her basket of rose petals.
As I pulled her free, she looked up at me, bewildered. Why was I bad, Mum? Then, with a trembling finger, she pointed to the culprit.
My stomach twisted when I realised whoand why.
She was pointing at Margaret my new mother-in-law.
I confronted her, my voice shaking. Without a trace of remorse, she sneered, Shes not my blood. It shouldve been Sophie, my granddaughter, carrying those flowers.
The stunned guests fell silent, the air thick with tension.
Without another word, Margaret was shown the door, still defiant.
Kneeling beside Charlotte, I brushed her tears away. Its still your turn, sweetheartif you want it.
She lifted her chin and nodded.
The music began again, and in a hush thick with emotion, Charlotte walked down the aisle, scattering petals with quiet determination.
Small but unbroken, she reached me, beaming. I did it, Mum.
And in that moment, she was the bravest girl in England.
