I was supposed to marry the love of my life that day. The vows were in my pocket, the garden full of guests. Everything was ready—except the bride.
Hours later, I found her at a bus station. With my father.
From the moment I met Lili, I knew. She made the world feel quieter. Honest, grounded, strong. On our first date, she told me about her two-year-old daughter, Emma. I didn’t hesitate—I fell in love with them both. When Emma started calling me “Daddy,” it meant everything.
We planned a simple wedding in my mother’s garden, even wrote vows to Emma. That morning, I was buzzing, rereading the line where I promised to be her dad forever.
But Lili never showed. Her dress hung untouched. Her phone went silent. A bridesmaid finally confessed—Lili had asked for a ride to the bus station that morning. With Emma.
I raced there—and saw her. Dressed in jeans, holding Emma’s hand. And next to her, my father. Too familiar. Too close.
I watched, hidden. He carried her bag, whispered to her. They checked into a hotel together. One room.
Later, when I confronted Lili, she broke down. He’d come to her days before the wedding—said she wasn’t good enough, offered money to vanish, threatened to use Emma’s biological father against her.
She was scared. Thought she might lose me anyway.
When he walked in, I called him out. Told him I didn’t care about the money, the house, the job. I chose her.
He warned I’d regret it.
“No,” I said. “You will.”
I turned to Lili and told her I wasn’t going anywhere. That night, we didn’t need to say much. We already knew.
