The wedding invitation arrived six weeks later. An intimate ceremony. Immediate family only. I stared at it for a long time. Mom’s name was nowhere to be found—no mention, no acknowledgment of how little time had passed.
Still, I went.
I told myself it was the grown-up thing to do. The loving thing. The daughter thing. On the wedding day, surrounded by smiles, champagne, and gentle music, I kept repeating the same lie in my head.
This is just grief. Just two broken people finding solace.
Then Robert arrived late, eyes frantic, jacket half on. He grabbed my arm.
“Claire. We need to talk. Now.”
Before I could ask what was wrong, he said the words that shattered everything.
“You don’t really know who Dad is.”
He didn’t slow down until we were nearly outside. The music softened behind us. Laughter spilled through the open doors. Someone clinked a glass in celebration. It felt grotesque.
