After many years of missed birthdays and empty promises, he was rarely more than a name on the edge of her memory.
However, this time, he sounded different—soft-spoken, sincere.
I was cautious, yet Lily deserved a chance to be loved by her father.
Therefore, I agreed, hoping this would be the beginning of something better.
The weekend started well.
Leo sent photos of Lily grinning on a carousel, ice cream smeared on her cheeks, arms outstretched at the park.
It almost convinced me.
But on Sunday, everything collapsed.
My sister called, her voice sharp with disbelief. “Did you know Leo got married this weekend?” she asked. I froze. “Check his Instagram.”
And there it was: Leo in a tux, a woman in a white dress, and Lily—our daughter—standing between them in a flower girl dress.
Not a word of warning. Not a request. Just betrayal, neatly filtered and hashtagged.
I drove to the wedding venue, heart pounding, hands shaking.
