I let my stepmom, Diane, come to my wedding for my dad’s sake, hoping I could endure her for one day. But when she read my childhood diary aloud to embarrass me, her cruel stunt backfired, revealing her true nature and strengthening my bond with those who truly love me.
I’m Lindsay, 28, and last month, I married Ethan, my anchor for six years. He knows my pain, especially from Diane, my stepmom since I was 10. “You sure about her?” he asked, eyeing her name on our guest list. “Dad pleaded,” I said. “I’ve survived her for years. I can do one day.” I was naive. After Mom died, Diane entered our lives with fake warmth and cutting words. “Don’t eat so much, Lindsay,” she’d say, or, “That look’s daring.” At 13, I heard her call me “plain” on the phone. Dad said, “Give her a chance.” I hid my hurt in a pink diary, dreaming of escape.
At 18, I left, keeping Diane distant. Last Christmas, she noted, “You’re different.” I replied, “That’s life.” On my wedding day, my sister, Rachel, zipped my dress, saying, “You’re Mom’s twin.” Dad grinned, “You’re gorgeous.” I asked, “Diane’s okay?” He said, “She’ll be good.” The ceremony was perfect—Ethan’s shaky vows, the glowing sunset. At the reception, I wore a light dress, dancing with Ethan, who kept saying, “My wife!” Rachel’s speech sparkled; my friend Mia’s was hilarious. Then Diane took the mic.
“I’ve seen Lindsay grow,” she said, her smile cold. “She loved writing.” She held up my old pink diary. My heart sank. “March 7th,” she read, “‘My thighs look gross in gym.’ April 15th: ‘Ethan likes Jessica, not me.’” It was another Ethan, from middle school, but the humiliation stung. “June 9th: ‘I practiced kissing my hand. No one will kiss me.’” Guests fidgeted, some laughing nervously. I stood, trembling. “Stop it!” Diane cooed, “It’s sweet.” I shouted, “You stole my diary!” Ethan backed me. “This is fun? Shaming her on our day?”
Dad approached, voice low. “Hand it over.” Diane laughed, “It’s a prank.” He insisted, “Now.” She gave it up, scoffing, “So sensitive.” Dad faced her. “We’re through. Leave after this.” Diane sputtered, “You pick her?” He said, “I pick my daughter.” To me, he said, “I’m sorry I ignored her cruelty.” I cried, not for Diane—she left in a huff—but for Dad’s stand. Ethan held me, asking, “Okay?” I smiled, “Getting there.” Our song played, and we danced, joined by family. Diane’s plan failed; she made our day stronger.
Later, Dad said, “I let you down.” I replied, “You’re here now.” He’d filed for divorce, seeing Diane’s true colors. He sent me a leather journal, writing, “Your words matter. I’m here.” I wrote, learning family is who shields your heart. Diane’s cruelty showed me who my real family is, and that love—Ethan’s, Dad’s, Rachel’s—is my true strength.
