As I approached the welcome table, Emily suddenly appeared, her white dress glowing under the chandeliers. For a brief moment, our eyes met. I smiled.
She didn’t.
Her expression hardened, and she walked toward me quickly, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.
“Dad,” she said in a low, tense voice, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you get married,” I replied quietly. “I just wanted to congratulate you.”
She swallowed, then said the words that still echo in my head.
“I’m sorry, but you weren’t invited. Please leave.”
The music continued behind her. Guests laughed. Someone popped a champagne cork.
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
“You should go,” she added. “I don’t want a scene.”
I nodded slowly. “Of course,” I said. “I don’t want to ruin your day.”
I turned and walked away without looking back.
No one stopped me.
I sat in my car for several minutes, staring at the steering wheel. I remembered teaching Emily how to ride a bike, staying up late to help with her science projects, working double shifts after her mother left us so Emily could have a stable life.
I didn’t cry. I just drove home.
Two hours later, my phone rang.
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