I was 25, ready to marry Andrew, the patient man who brought calm to my life. My parents split when I was ten after Mom’s affair crushed Dad. I grew up between Dad’s quiet home and Mom’s drama-filled one. Andrew proposed by a lake, and we planned a spring wedding, delayed for my grandma’s illness. Andrew supported me, and we set a new date. We invited our families to dinner to plan, hoping to blend my messy one with Andrew’s kind dad, Richard.
Mom’s chaos worried me, but I believed in unity. “This could backfire,” Andrew said, watching me arrange chairs. “They’ll be fine,” I said, unsure. Dad and his wife, Ellen, brought salad, Mom liked my stew, and Richard asked about our venue. Mom’s snarky remarks about Ellen’s shoes caused tension, but we made it through. I hid a secret: I was pregnant, planning to tell Andrew later. Then Mom called me at work. “I eloped with Richard!” she chirped. “We married in Vegas!”
“Andrew’s dad?” I choked. “Yes, so you can’t marry—it’s odd now,” she said firmly. “You’re wrecking my life,” I shouted, revealing my pregnancy. “Pregnant?” she said, turning manipulative, crying about her past “mistake.” I cut her off: “You’re done.” Soon, vendors called about cancellations—Mom’s sabotage. Andrew, furious, confronted Richard, who was unaware and brushed it off. We chose to escape, packing and moving two states away, telling only Dad and my friend Sophie. We wed in a courthouse, with them present.
“Regret this?” Andrew asked in our new home. “Never,” I said. Dad later called: Mom and Richard divorced after four months. She sent a baby blanket, wanting contact. I donated it. Mom’s messages claim rights to my child, but she lost them when she tried to destroy my wedding. Andrew and I are building a peaceful life, protecting our baby from her drama, stronger for choosing each other.
