“I don’t want to,” she said, tearing up. “But I’m not letting you sabotage this. I pick him.”
I had already lost my husband. I couldn’t lose her too.
So I swallowed everything and said, “Okay. I’ll be there.”
But inside, I kept thinking, I can’t just stand by and watch this.
The wedding was rustic and beautiful—wood beams, fairy lights, everything.
I sat in the front row while my daughter walked down the aisle on my brother’s arm. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Then the officiant said, “If anyone knows of a reason—”
I stood before my brain caught up.
“I do,” I said.
The room went silent. Emily turned, eyes wide. Mark’s jaw tightened.
“Mom,” she said, “sit down.”
“I can’t,” I said. “Emily, you don’t know—”
“You are not doing this,” she snapped. “You had months. You chose my wedding. This is about you and your unresolved teenage drama.”
“That’s not fair—”
“If you love me,” she said, voice shaking but firm, “you will sit down and let me marry the man I chose.”
Phones came out. People stared. My face burned.
I sat.
