I’m Lucas, and five years after my wife’s death, I took my daughter to my best friend’s wedding. When the bride’s veil lifted, I broke down, and my daughter asked, “Daddy, why are you crying?” The truth set me free.
I wasn’t keen on that party years back. My buddy Tom hauled me there, saying it’d shake off my stress from long construction days. The crowd was ritzy, and I felt off in my worn jacket. Then I saw Mia. She was just picking up a friend, but our eyes met, and something sparked. “Who’s she?” I asked Tom. He laughed, “Mia? Her family’s elite. Forget it.” But I approached. “I’m Lucas,” I said, offering my hand. “Mia,” she replied, smiling. “You look as uncomfortable as I am.” We talked all night, her warmth real. “My parents wouldn’t like you,” she teased as I walked her out. “Trouble?” I asked. She grinned. “Not for me.”
We wed six months later. Her parents disowned her, but Mia said, “You’re enough.” We got a tiny apartment. I worked construction and studied design; Mia worked at a café. We were okay until our daughter, Chloe, came. Mia’s joy faded. “My friend got a ski lodge,” she said one night, eating soup, Chloe asleep. “Cool,” I said, drafting plans. “She asked us to visit, but we’re broke,” Mia snapped. “We’ll make it,” I said. “When?” she retorted. “I’m sick of this.” Fights escalated. “This isn’t my life,” she’d say, like I’d tricked her. “You knew me,” I argued. “Maybe that was my error,” she said sharply.
One day, I came home with donuts, but Mia was gone. Her clothes, her bag—gone. A note in Chloe’s crib read: “I want out. This was wrong. Chloe’s with the neighbor. Keep her.” I called her, no reply. I drove to her parents’ estate, but guards blocked me. “Go,” they said. Divorce papers soon arrived, cutting her ties to Chloe. Six months later, her mother called. “Mia’s dead,” she said coldly. “Car crash. Don’t call.” I collapsed, crying with Chloe. They barred me from her grave. I focused on Chloe and work, got my degree, started a design firm. Chloe grew happy, her mother’s sparkle in her laugh.
Five years later, Tom invited us to his wedding. “Go, Chloe?” I asked as she drew. “Cake?” she asked. I laughed. “Giant cake.” She agreed. The seaside wedding was lovely, with flowers and waves. Tom hugged us. “Big boss now!” he teased. Chloe grinned. As the veiled bride approached, I held Chloe’s hand. Tom lifted the veil, and I froze. Mia stood there, alive. Tears fell as Chloe asked, “Daddy, why are you crying?” Mia’s eyes met mine, and she ran. “Stay with Aunt Jane,” I told Chloe, chasing her. In a hall, Mia trembled. “You’re dead,” I said, voice cracking. “They said you died.” She whispered, “I didn’t know they told you that.” I laughed, hurt. “I grieved you, Mia.”
Anger surged. “You left Chloe, faked your death!” She flinched. “I needed a fresh start. My father handled it.” Tom appeared, confused. “What’s happening?” I turned. “She’s my ex, left me and Chloe, then vanished.” Tom faced Mia. “You faked it?” She nodded, tears falling. “I’m sorry,” she said. Tom walked off, crushed. The wedding stopped. Mia’s parents took her, ignoring me. Weeks later, Tom and I had beers. “She deceived me,” he said. “No word of you or Chloe.” I nodded. “Not your fault.” He asked if I was okay. I smiled. “Yeah. It wasn’t me.” With Chloe and my firm, I felt free, the past’s shadow lifted.
