My heart is shattered by my daughter’s actions. I believed that at 25, she would appreciate the truth and distinguish between kindness and apathy. Yet, her behavior revealed the painful opposite. She didn’t invite her stepfather, my husband Richard, who has lovingly cared for her since she was nine, to her wedding. Instead, she invited her biological father, who has ignored her all these years. Given this betrayal, I have no desire to attend the celebration.
My divorce from my first husband, Mark, was as inevitable as a storm after calm. The last four years of our marriage, I endured only due to my patience and the pleas of my ex-mother-in-law, who begged me to tolerate her wayward son. But every limit has its breaking point, and mine was reached when my daughter, Lucy, turned seven. Her father always put the family last. He only spent time with her when he was slightly tipsy—turning argumentative enough to leave bruises, both physical and emotional.
Discovering his affair was the final straw. The thought of another woman being drawn to his facade shocked me into action. I filed for divorce and never looked back. Mark didn’t try to save the family—he packed up, smashed the hallway mirror, and left with his head held high like the protagonist of some drama. My ex-mother-in-law, once weeping over her “poor boy’s” fate, turned into a real shrew, blaming everything on me and trying to convince Lucy that I had chased away her “loving dad,” although he’d long excluded us from his life.
Lucy always gravitated towards her father more than me. I was the strict one, enforcing discipline, while he sporadically appeared in a good mood with cheap sweets and empty promises. When he was angry, I shielded her from his rage. Thus, in her eyes, he remained the fairy-tale knight, while I was the perpetual warden. Explaining the truth seemed futile; her grandmother had poisoned her mind, and she longed for her “good dad,” who wasn’t worth a penny. I grit my teeth and continued fighting for her. A year later, when her grandmother passed away, the pressure eased, but she still idealized her father and blamed me for his absence.
When Lucy was nine, I met Richard in our town near Cambridge. His kind demeanor and warm smile won me over. We fell in love, and despite my fears of losing him, I was honest: I had a daughter, and she might not accept him. However, Richard was undeterred. He proposed, fully aware of the challenges ahead. Lucy threw tantrums, provoked him, and tested his patience constantly. I worried he might give up. But he stayed. In sixteen years, he only raised his voice twice—and both were deserved. He took her to competitions, picked her up from parties, bought clothes without complaint, and even funded her university education—something her biological father never did.
In high school, Lucy became more neutral towards Richard. She didn’t attack him, but gratitude was absent. I hoped she’d eventually realize how rare a person Richard was—that not every stepfather cares so much for a child not his own. I knew she saw Mark occasionally but stayed out of it. Each birthday, she waited desperately for a call from him that never came—year after year, blind to reality.
After graduation, she moved to another city for university. She returned and moved in with a boyfriend from her third year and then announced their wedding. I assumed Richard would be included in her plans. But she chose to omit him. He masked his hurt, but I saw the dimness in his eyes. Lucy threw at me:
“Dad will be at the wedding. How do you expect him and Richard to be in the same place? Do you want chaos?”
Feeling outraged, I replied:
“You invite the father who abandoned you and disregard the man who raised you? You’re ungrateful! I’m not attending your wedding. Turn to your ‘dad’ for everything now.”
She tried to speak, but I had already shut the door.
At home, Richard urged me to reconsider: she’s our only child, it’s her day. But I cannot. She’s shown what truly matters to her. Richard and I have fought so hard for her all these years, yet she still idolizes the one who left her. Fine. I wash my hands of this pain and disappointment.
