Father never abandoned us. That wasn’t how it had been at all, no matter what Mum said…
For twenty long years, I carried the hurt in my heart. All that time, Mum repeated the same story—he left us, vanished into the unknown, erased us from his life. The last time I saw him, I was seven. There were only a few faded photographs left, fragments of memory that brought nothing but pain and confusion. I tried to bury his image. Everything I knew came from Mum.
She claimed he drank, ran around, and in the end, she threw him out after another row. Said he never even tried to come back, never called, never cared. She swore that when he showed up on my first day of school—he was drunk, made a scene, and disappeared forever. Twenty years passed. I grew up resenting him, certain he’d chosen an easier life without us.
When I got engaged, my fiancé suddenly asked:
“Are you going to invite your father to the wedding?”
I froze.
“I don’t even know… Maybe I’d want to, but I have no idea where he is. And is it even worth it?”
“You still talk to his sister, don’t you? Ask her. I think you’d regret not trying.”
He was right. I went to see Auntie Margaret—the only one left from Dad’s side of the family I still spoke to. We rarely met, but it was always warm when we did. Mum despised her, said she was always making excuses for her brother.
Auntie Margaret opened the door in her dressing gown, surprised.
“Sophie? Is everything alright?”
“I need to talk. About Dad…”
She was quiet a long time before sighing deeply.
“I thought you’d figure it out yourself eventually. But I suppose it’s time. Your father wasn’t what your mum made him out to be. No saint, sure. But no monster, either. He loved you. It’s just… Evelyn was impossible with her jealousy. He carried a neighbour’s shopping—got kicked out for it. She screamed, forbade him from setting foot near the house. Then she lied, told him you weren’t his—though she knew better. He stood outside in the rain, sent gifts—all sent back. Your mum destroyed him. And she stole your father from you.”
I sat there, hands clenched. The world inside my head collapsed. Twenty years, built on a lie. My anger had been misplaced. Mum had cut me off from his love, never giving it a chance.
When I told her I wanted to invite Dad to the wedding, she snapped like a twig:
“If you do that, forget about me! It’s him or me!”
I didn’t answer. For the first time, I chose myself. Silently.
On the wedding day, it was like something from a film—chaos, a nervous bride, rain lashing the windows. The umbrella had vanished, the driver was honking, the guests waiting at the registry office. I rushed out, tripping over my dress, when suddenly, an umbrella opened over my head.
A man in a black coat stood there. His face was older, but familiar. Silver hair, kind eyes.
“Hello, love,” he said softly.
I cried. Something inside me broke—the coiled spring of hurt and longing, finally unwound.
“Hi, Dad…”
“Sorry for turning up uninvited. Margaret mentioned the wedding.”
“Thank you for coming,” I whispered.
“And Mum—”
“I’m grown now. I decide who stands with me on the important days. Let’s go. They’re waiting.”
He nodded and opened the car door. In that moment, I knew—this was truly my happiest day. The day I let go of the past… and felt, for the first time, that I wasn’t alone.
