My daughter broke my heart. I thought she knew how to be grateful, that at 25 she could see the truth and distinguish between goodness and indifference. But her actions proved the opposite—bitterly and painfully so. She didn’t invite her stepfather, my husband David, to her wedding, despite him raising her since she was nine, pouring his heart into every step of hers. Yet, she invited her biological father, who had always been indifferent to her. After this, I have no desire to attend this betrayal of a celebration.
The inevitable divorce from my first husband, John, came like a storm after the calm. The last four years of our marriage were held together by my resilience and his mother’s pleas to tolerate her wayward son. But there are limits, and my patience ran out when Emma, our daughter, turned seven. John’s family was never a priority; he only spent time with Emma when he was tipsy but before he became completely drunk. He would disappear for days and come back asserting his righteousness with his fists, leaving bruises not just on me but on my heart.
When I discovered his affair, it was the last straw. The idea that another woman would fall for this “treasure” was a cold shock. I filed for divorce without looking back. John didn’t even try to save the family; he packed his things, shattered the hallway mirror, and left with the air of a tragic hero. His mother, who had cried over her “poor boy,” turned into a true vixen, blaming me for everything and trying to convince Emma that I drove her “loving daddy” away, even though he had long erased us from his life.
Emma gravitated towards her father more than me. I was the strict one—raising her, teaching her, making her do her homework. He rarely appeared, and when he did, it was with cheap sweets and empty promises. When he came home angry, I jumped in to protect her from his rage, putting myself between them. To her, he remained some chivalrous knight, and I, a watchful guard. Trying to explain the truth was pointless; her mind was poisoned by her grandmother, and Emma yearned for the “kind dad” who was worth less than a broken penny. I gritted my teeth and kept fighting for her. A year later, her grandmother died, easing the pressure on Emma, yet she continued to idealize her father and blame me for his absence.
When Emma was nine, I met David in our town near Norwich. He immediately impressed me—kind, dependable, with a warm smile. I fell in love, and he felt the same. Yet, I feared losing him, so I honestly told him: I have a daughter, and she might not accept him; it won’t be easy. David didn’t back down. He proposed, knowing challenges were ahead. And they began quickly: Emma threw tantrums, was rude, and provoked him at every turn. I thought he’d give up—who would want to put up with insults and drama? But he stayed. In sixteen years, he raised his voice at her only twice, and she deserved it both times. He drove her to competitions, picked her up from parties, bought her clothes, never once reproaching her. Even her university education was funded by him, not her so-called biological father.
In her last years of school, Emma became calmer around him. She wasn’t hostile, but she didn’t show gratitude either. I hoped that in time she’d realize what a rare person David was—not every stepfather would care so much for someone else’s child. I knew she sometimes met up with John. I stayed out of it, but every birthday tore at my heart: she waited on his call till midnight, and he never did. And yet she waited—year after year, blindly.
After school, she left to study in another city. On returning, she moved in with a boyfriend she’d been seeing since her third year. Then she announced their wedding. I was sure David would be there with us. But she crossed him off her guest list. He tried to hide his pain, but I saw the light leave his eyes. Emma tossed at me:
“My father’s coming to the wedding. How do you expect me to have him and David together? Are you trying to create a scene?”
I was outraged:
“You invited the father who discarded your life and excluded the man who raised you? You’re ungrateful! I won’t be going to your wedding. Turn to your ‘dad’ for everything now.”
She tried to speak, but I had already slammed the door.
At home, David urged me to reconsider, claiming she’s our only daughter, and it’s her day. But I can’t. She’s made it clear what’s important to her. David and I have fought for her for years, and she still idolizes the one who abandoned her. Fine. I’m done—enough of this pain and disappointment.
