My daughter has broken my heart. I thought she knew how to be grateful, that at 25, she could discern truth and differentiate kindness from indifference. But her actions proved otherwise—bitterly and painfully so. She didn’t invite her stepfather, my husband John, to her wedding, despite him raising her since she was nine, putting his heart into every step she took. Yet, she invited her biological father, who has disregarded her for years. After such a betrayal, I have no desire to attend this celebration.
My divorce from my first husband, James, was as inevitable as a storm after calm. The last four years of our marriage, I hung on by sheer willpower and the pleas of my mother-in-law, who begged me to endure her wayward son. But there was a limit to what I could bear, and my patience ran out when my daughter, Emily, was seven. Her father always put his family last, paying her mind only when slightly inebriated, until he was too drunk to care. He could disappear for days and would return proving his points with fists, leaving bruises not only on me but also on my heart.
Learning about his mistress was the final straw. The thought that another woman could fall for such a “prize” was a wake-up call. I filed for divorce, not looking back. James didn’t try to save our family—he gathered his things, smashed the hallway mirror, and left with his head held high as if he were the hero of some drama. His mother, who once shed tears over her “poor boy’s” fate, turned into a real harpy. She blamed everything on me and tried to convince Emily that I had chased away her “loving daddy,” although he had long since erased us from his life.
Emily always gravitated more towards her father than me. I was strict—educating her, teaching her, pushing her with her homework. He arrived rarely, in good spirits, with cheap chocolates and empty promises. When he came angry, I would protect her from his fury, shielding her with my own body. In her eyes, he remained a kind of fairytale knight, while I was the perpetual warden. Explaining the truth was pointless: her grandmother had poisoned her mind, and Emily longed for the “kind father” who wasn’t worth a penny. I gritted my teeth and kept fighting for her. When her grandmother passed a year later, the pressure on Emily lessened, but she still idealized her father and blamed me for his absence.
When Emily was nine, I met John in a small town in Gloucestershire. I liked him immediately—kind, reliable, and warm. I fell in love, and he reciprocated. Fearful of losing him, I was upfront: I had a daughter who might not accept him, and it wouldn’t be easy. John didn’t shy away; he proposed to me, knowing hardships lay ahead. And they began immediately: Emily threw tantrums, was rude, provoked him at every turn. I thought he would give up—who would want constant confrontation and drama? But he stayed. In sixteen years, he raised his voice at her only twice—and even then, deservedly. He took her to competitions, picked her up from parties, bought her clothes, never once reproaching her. Even her university tuition was paid by him, not the vaunted biological father.
In her senior school years, Emily treated him with calm detachment. She didn’t attack him, but neither did she express gratitude. I hoped she would realize in time what a rare person John was—not every stepfather cares so deeply for a child not his own. I knew she occasionally saw James. I stayed out of it, but each of her birthdays tore at my heart—she’d wait for his call until midnight, but he never called. Yet she waited year after year, like someone blind.
After school, she went to study in another town. Returning, she moved in with a boyfriend she’d been seeing since her third year. Then she announced her wedding. I was certain John would be with us there. But she left him off the guest list. He tried to hide his hurt, but I saw the dullness in his eyes. Emily thrust it in my face:
“My father will be at the wedding. How do you picture him and John together? Do you want to create a scene?”
I was aghast.
“You invited the father who abandoned your life and crossed out the man who raised you? You’re ungrateful! I won’t be attending your wedding. Turn to your ‘dad’ for everything now.”
She tried to respond, but I was already out the door.
At home, John tried to persuade me to reconsider, saying she was our only daughter and it’s her day. But I can’t. She’s made it clear what matters to her. We fought for her for years, and she still idolizes the one who left her. Let it be so. I’m washing my hands of this pain and disappointment.
