After my divorce, I swore off marriage for good. My world revolved entirely around my daughter, Poppy. Then along came Oliverkind, considerate, and brilliant with Poppy. She adored him, and the way her eyes lit up around him told me she felt utterly safe.
When he proposed, I hesitated. But Poppy squeezed me tight and whispered, Mum, please say yes. So I did.
Our wedding day in Kent was picture-perfect. Poppy, our little flower girl, clutched her basket of roses, ready to lead the procession. But as the music swelled she vanished. Panic set in. Minutes later, we found herlocked in a broom cupboard, tear-streaked, petals still clutched in her tiny hands.
She stumbled out, bewildered, and asked in a wobbling voice, Why was I in trouble, Mum? Then she pointed straight at the culprit.
My heart shattered when I realised whoand why.
She pointed at Margaret. My mother-in-law.
When I confronted her, she sniffed, Shes not even proper family. It shouldve been my Charlotte carrying those flowers. The guests gasped, horrified.
Without another word, Margaret was briskly shown the doorstill utterly convinced of her righteousness.
I knelt beside Poppy, my voice thick, and murmured, Its still your moment, sweetheart. If you want it.
She squared her shoulders, nodded, and the music began again. In a hush of awe, Poppy marched down the aisle, scattering petals like a tiny, unstoppable force of nature. The room erupted in cheers.
At the end, she beamed up at me, glowing with triumph. I did it, Mum. And oh, she certainly had.
