I’m Tom, and five years after my wife’s reported death, I took my daughter, Sophie, to my friend Nick’s wedding, never expecting it to unravel my past. Years back, Nick forced me to a party after a tough week building houses. “One drink,” he said, pushing me into a noisy apartment. There, I spotted Rachel, just there to drop off a gift. Our eyes met, and I felt alive. Nick said her family was loaded, but I walked over anyway.
Rachel’s kind smile disarmed me. “I’m Tom,” I said. “Rachel,” she replied, laughing about feeling awkward. We talked all night, her sincerity captivating me. Six months later, we married, despite her parents cutting her off. “You’re enough,” she said. We lived in a small flat—I worked construction, studied design; she worked at a café. Sophie’s birth changed Rachel. She missed her old life, griping about friends’ fancy homes over our simple meals. Fights grew. “This isn’t what I wanted,” she’d snap.
One day, she was gone, leaving a note in Sophie’s crib: “Divorce me. Keep Sophie.” She gave up her rights, her parents’ lawyers handling it. Six months later, her mom said she died in a crash. I broke down, raising Sophie alone. I finished my degree, started a design firm, and Sophie became a happy five-year-old. Nick’s wedding invite arrived, and we went. At the beach ceremony, Sophie played with her flower. When Nick lifted the bride’s veil, I saw Rachel. I cried, and Sophie asked, “Why, Daddy?”
Rachel bolted after seeing me. I left Sophie with Nick’s sister and found Rachel trembling. “They said you died,” I said, stunned. She admitted faking her death to escape, her father’s plan. “You let me tell Sophie you’re gone,” I yelled. Nick overheard, demanding answers. I told him Rachel was my ex, who abandoned us. She confessed, and the wedding stopped. Her parents took her away. Later, Nick and I shared drinks. “She tricked me too,” he said. I felt lighter, realizing her leaving wasn’t my fault. With Sophie and my career, I’m free to move forward.
