Father never abandoned us. It wasn’t as Mum had always claimed…
For twenty long years, I carried the hurt in my heart. All that time, my mother repeated the same refrain: Father had left us, vanished into the unknown, erased us from his life. The last time I saw him, I was seven. Only a few faded photographs remained, along with vague fragments of memory that brought nothing but confusion and pain. I tried to push his image away. Everything I knew came from Mum.
She told me he drank, caroused, and that in the end, she’d thrown him out after yet another row. Said he never tried to return, never called, never cared. She claimed even when he came to my first day of school—he was drunk, made a scene, and disappeared forever. Twenty years passed. I grew up bitter, convinced he’d simply chosen an easier life without us.
When I was about to marry, my fiancé suddenly asked,
“Are you going to invite your father to the wedding?”
I faltered.
“I don’t even know… Maybe I would, but I’ve no idea where he is. And does he even deserve it?”
“You still talk to his sister, don’t you? Ask her. I think you’ll regret it if you don’t.”
He was right. I went to see Aunt Rose—the only one from Father’s side I still kept in touch with. We met seldom but always warmly. Mum couldn’t stand her, said she always made excuses for her brother.
Aunt Rose answered the door in her dressing gown, surprised.
“Heavens, Emma? Is everything all right?”
“I need to talk. About Dad…”
She was silent a long while, then let out a heavy sigh.
“I thought you’d figure it out in time. But I suppose it’s time you knew. Your father wasn’t what your mother made him out to be. No saint, mind. But no villain either. He loved you, truly. It’s just… Your mother was impossibly jealous. He helped a neighbor carry her shopping—and for that, she put him out. Shouted, forbade him from even coming near the house. Then she told him you weren’t his, though she knew it was a lie. He stood under your window in the rain, sent gifts—all sent back. Your mother destroyed him. And she robbed you of a father.”
I sat in silence, hands clenched. My world crumbled. All those years, I’d lived an illusion. My resentment had been built on lies. It was Mum who cut me off from his love, never giving it a chance.
When I told her I wanted to invite Father to the wedding, she flared up like a struck match:
“If you do that, you can forget about me! It’s him or me!”
I didn’t answer. For the first time in my life, I chose myself. Silently.
On the wedding day, it was like something from a film—hustle, a nervous bride, rain at the window. The umbrella had gone missing, the driver was honking, guests were already waiting at the registry office. I rushed out, tripping on my dress, when suddenly, someone held an umbrella over my head.
Before me stood a man in a black coat. His face was familiar, though aged. Silver hair, kind eyes.
“Hello, love,” he said softly.
I wept. Something inside me uncoiled—as if a spring of bitterness and longing had finally snapped.
“Hello, Dad…”
“Sorry for turning up uninvited. Rose told me about the wedding.”
“Thank you for coming,” I whispered.
“Your mother—”
“I’m grown. And I decide who’s beside me on the most important day. Come on. They’re waiting.”
He nodded silently and opened the car door for me. In that moment, I knew—this truly was the happiest day of my life. The day I let go of the past… and for the first time, truly felt I wasn’t alone.
