I raised my stepdaughter, Emily, for ten years. I was there for the scraped knees, the school projects, the heartbreaks. I taught her how to drive, sat through endless ballet recitals, and even suffered through her high school emo phase when she dyed her hair jet black and insisted on listening to the same sad song on repeat. I paid for her education, bought her a car, and now, I was paying for her wedding.
But nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for the moment she announced that her absent “real dad” would be the one giving her away.
It happened last night, during dinner with the future in-laws. A fancy restaurant, white tablecloths, wine glasses too delicate for my grip. Emily, glowing with excitement, was seated across from me, her fiancé Jason beside her. His parents, nice enough people, were chatting about wedding details when the waiter arrived with another chair.
“We have one more guest joining us,” Emily said with a smile.
Then, like a bad dream, he walked in.