The envelope landed on the kitchen table like a thunderclap. My daughter, Ethel, had slipped me an invitation to her wedding. The moment I tore it open, the world tilted and I nearly swooned.
It was a cruel twist of fate that Id been married twice. From my first marriage I had a daughter, Ethel, and from my second a son. My first wife, Margaret, never wanted children; she was simply incapable of being a mother. I wanted Ethel to have a proper upbringing, so I begged my thenexwife to let me bring my girl back. My new wife, Claire, agreed to take Ethel in as her own.
When Ethel turned seventeen, she walked into the sittingroom, eyes shining with terror, and told us she was pregnant. The father of the unborn child fled the moment he learned the news. We didnt scold her or cast her out; we simply accepted her and the baby that would follow. Claire suggested we register Ethel at our flat on Baker Street, and we did.
Ethel drifted from job to job, idle until her son started at the local nursery. Claire raised the boy as if he were her own flesh and blood, never drawing a line between her biological son and Ethels child. She loved them both with equal devotion.
A year later, Ethel met a man named Tom. They moved in together and soon decided to marry. Every logistical detail of the ceremony fell on Claires shoulders. Ethels only task was to post the invitations.
When the invitations arrived, I could barely keep my legs under me. My name appeared on the guest list in bold, but there was not a single word about Claire. Imagine my shockmy heart hammered, my throat went dry. Claire had poured her whole heart into raising Ethel, had helped organise the whole affair, and now the invitation ignored her entirely.
I chose to stand with Claire. On the day of the wedding I went to the registry office in Westminster, offered my congratulations to the newlyweds, and then slipped back home. I never set foot in the reception hall.
