My daughter has broken my heart. I believed she understood gratitude, that at 25, she could discern truth from indifference. But her actions proved otherwise—bitterly, painfully otherwise. She didn’t invite her stepfather, my husband Richard, to her wedding, despite him raising her since she was nine, pouring his heart into every step of her life. Yet, she invited her biological father, who ignored her all these years. After this, I have no desire to attend this celebration of betrayal.
The divorce from my first husband, John, was as inevitable as a storm after a calm. The last four years of our marriage clung together only by my endurance and his mother’s pleas to bear with her wayward son. But there’s a limit to everything, and my patience ran out when our daughter, Jane, turned seven. Her father always put the family last. He only paid attention to her when he was slightly drunk—until he became insensible. He would disappear for days and return only to assert his version of reality with fists, leaving bruises on me and worse, on my heart.
When I discovered his affair, it was the final straw. The thought that another woman was taken in by this “treasure” snapped me to my senses. I filed for divorce without looking back. John didn’t even try to save the family—he packed his things, smashed the hallway mirror, and left with a proud air like some dramatic hero. His mother, who once wept over the fate of her “poor boy,” turned into a shrew. She blamed me for everything and tried to convince Jane that I drove away her “loving dad,” even though he had long erased us from his life.
Jane always gravitated more towards her father than to me. I was strict—raising her, teaching her, making her do her homework. He would show up seldom, in a good mood, with cheap sweets and empty promises. When he came angry, I shielded her from his fury. Thus, he became a fairy tale knight in her eyes, while I became the eternal warden. There was no point in explaining the truth; his mother had poisoned her mind, and Jane longed for the “kind papa,” who was worthless in reality. I gritted my teeth and kept fighting for her. A year later, her grandmother passed away, easing some pressure off my daughter, but she continued to idealize her father and blame me for his absence.
When Jane turned nine, I met Richard in our town near Birmingham. He was instantly appealing—kind, reliable, with a warm smile. I fell in love, and he reciprocated. Afraid of losing him, I was honest: I had a daughter who might not accept him, and it wouldn’t be easy. Richard didn’t back down. He proposed, aware of the challenges ahead. And they came immediately: Jane threw tantrums, was rude, provoked him at every turn. I thought he’d give up—who wants to endure insults and drama? But he stayed. In sixteen years, he only raised his voice at her twice—and rightfully so. He took her to competitions, picked her up from parties, bought her clothes, never once complaining. Even her university education was paid by him, not her glorified biological father.
During her senior years, Jane treated Richard more calmly. She didn’t attack him, but she didn’t show gratitude either. I hoped she’d eventually see what a rare person Richard was—not every stepfather cares so deeply for another’s child. I knew she occasionally met with John. I stayed out of it, but every birthday ripped at my heart; she waited for his call until midnight, but he never did. Yet she kept waiting—year after year, as if blind.
After school, she moved to another city for university. She returned to live with a boyfriend she’d been with since her third year. Then, she announced the wedding. I was sure Richard and I would be there. Instead, she erased him from the guest list. He tried to hide his pain, but I saw how his eyes dulled. Jane threw her words at me:
“My dad will be at the wedding. How do you imagine him and Richard together? Do you want a circus?”
Furious, I gasped, saying, “You invited the father who didn’t care and excluded the one who raised you? You’re ungrateful! I won’t attend your wedding. Go to your ‘dad’ for everything now.”
She tried to speak, but I had already slammed the door.
At home, Richard urged me to reconsider: she was our only daughter, it was her day. But I can’t. She’s made clear what matters to her. Richard and I struggled for her for years, and she still idolizes the one who abandoned her. So be it. I’m done with this heartache and disappointment.
