**Five Years After Her Departure, a Wedding Unveiled a Shocking Truth**
Five years after losing my wife, my daughter and I attended my best friends wedding. But my world crumbled when he lifted the brides veil. As my daughter whispered, Daddy, why are you crying? the bride locked eyes with me and in that moment, everything fell apart.
I never planned to go to that party. It was my colleague Mark who dragged me, swearing it would pull me out of my rut.
Id been working double shifts at the construction site for weeks, and my body ached like cement.
Just one hour, Mark insisted, practically shoving me through the door of a flat in central London. Then you can go home and keep being a hermit.
Funny how the most pivotal moments always come when you least expect them.
The party was full of people who looked like theyd never lifted anything heavier than a wine glass. In my worn jeans and old T-shirt, I felt out of place.
Then I saw her. Lucy.
She wasnt supposed to be there either. Later, I learned shed only come to drop something off for a friend.
Our eyes met across the room, and something clickedsparks, connection, whatever you want to call it. I knew I wanted her in my life.
Whos that? I asked Mark, nodding toward her.
He followed my gaze and whistled low. Lucy. Dont even try, mate. Her family owns half of Mayfair.
But I was already walking toward her.
She smiled as I approached, and that smile hit me like a hammer.
Im James, I said, holding out my hand.
Lucy, she replied, her voice soft but steady. Her hand was small in mine, but her grip was firm. You look as out of place as I feel.
We talked for hours that night. She wasnt what Id expectedno spoiled rich-girl attitude, just warmth and genuine curiosity. By the time I walked her to her car, I knew I was in trouble.
My parents would hate you, she said, moonlight catching her dark hair.
Is that a problem? I asked.
She looked at me with eyes that seemed to see right through me. Probably. But I dont care.
Six months later, we married. Her parents didnt come to the wedding. They disowned her completelyno inheritance, no family gatherings, nothing.
But Lucy just squeezed my hand and said, I dont care about the money. I only want you.
And for a while, that was enough.
We moved into a small two-bedroom flat. I worked construction by day and studied architectural design at night. Lucy got a job at an art gallery. We were happyor so I thought.
Then Emily was born, and something shifted. The light in Lucys eyes began to dim. She started comparing our life to the one shed left behind.
My uni friend just bought a house in Cornwall, she remarked one evening over mac and cheese in our tiny kitchen. Emily slept in her cot beside us.
Good for her, I muttered, not looking up from my blueprints.
She invited us to visit. I had to say we couldnt afford it.
Her words cut deep. Were fine, Lucy. Things will get better.
When? she snapped. When Emilys at uni? When we retire? Im tired of waiting for better, James.
The arguments grew more frequent. She hated budgeting, despised our modest life.
This isnt what I wanted, shed say.
As if Id tricked her. As if love paid the bills.
You knew who I was when you married me, I reminded her during one particularly bitter fight.
Maybe that was the mistake, she said coldly. I thought youd be more by now.
The next day, I came home early with flowers to surprise her. The flat was silent.
Her suitcase and all her things were gone.
In Emilys cot, I found a note:
I want a divorce. Im sorry, but our marriage was a mistake. Ive left Emily with Mrs. Thompson from upstairs. Keep her.
I called her mobile a hundred times. No answer. I went to her parents mansion, frantic, wild-eyed.
The security guard wouldnt let me in.
Youre not welcome here, sir, he said, almost pitying.
Please, I just need to speak to Lucy, I begged.
Sir, you need to leave.
Two days later, the divorce papers arrived. Lucy had given up parental rights. Her fathers lawyers handled everything with brutal efficiency.
Then came the final blow.
Six months after she left, I called her parents house one last time.
Shes dead, her mother said flatly. Lucy was in a car accident. Dont call again. You meant nothing to her.
She hung up.
I collapsed on the kitchen floor, sobbing until Emily woke up crying too.
They wouldnt even let me visit her grave. She was erased from my life as if shed never existed.
I threw myself into work and raising Emily. I finished my studies and began designing houses instead of just building them. People noticed my talent.
Within three years, I had my own firm. Emily grew into a bright, happy girlthe spitting image of her mother.
Five years passed. Life went on, and the pain dulled to a quiet ache.
Then the invitation came.
Steven, my oldest friend, was getting married. Wed lost touch after he joined the military, but now he wanted me at his wedding.
What do you think, Emmy? Should we go see Uncle Steven get married? I asked as she coloured.
Will there be cake? she asked seriously.
I laughed. Yes, a big fancy one.
Then were going, she decided, turning back to her drawing.
The wedding was at a seaside resort, all white flowers and ocean breeze. Steven hugged me tight when we arrived.
Mate, look at you! Proper success story, he said, clapping my shoulder. And this little beauty must be Emily.
Emily smiled shyly.
The ceremony was beautiful. Guests filled the white chairs on the beach. Emily sat beside me, swinging her legs and toying with the flower Id tucked in her hair.
The music swelled, and everyone stood.
The bride walked down the aisle, her face hidden beneath a veil.
Then came the moment.
Steven grinned as she reached him, lifting the veil gently.
I stopped breathing. Tears spilled before I even realised I was crying.
Emily looked up, confused. Daddy, why are you crying?
I froze, staring at the ghost of my dead ex-wife in a wedding dress.
Lucy smiled at the guests, but her eyes widened when she saw meand our daughter.
Then she ran.
Steven called after her, bewildered, but she was already gone. My legs shook as I stood.
And in the end, I realised the best revenge had been building a happy life without her.
