My dad left when I was a kid, so I never counted on him. When he promised to walk me down the aisle, I dared to hope he’d finally be there for me. On my wedding day, he broke my heart again, but someone else stepped up, showing me what real love looks like.
Dad walked out when I was eight, leaving Mom and me for his girlfriend, Karen. He’d been seeing her secretly, and one day, he told Mom he was “choosing his happiness.” My birthdays got ignored, and my high school graduation earned a card signed by Karen. College news? He said, “I’m not big on academics.” I stopped expecting anything, but when I got engaged, he suddenly called, acting like a doting dad. Karen was always there, grinning like she belonged.
I wasn’t convinced. “It’s all for show,” I told Mom, twisting my ring. She gave me her worn-out smile, the one from years of hard work. “Let him try,” she said. So I agreed. Dad said he’d help with the wedding, calling it “only fair.” No help came—not for the venue or the food. My fiancé, Mike, and I stretched our budget, and Mom used her savings to cover gaps. Still, Dad showed up early on the wedding day, acting like he’d never left.
Karen wore a loud silver dress, bragging it was custom from London. Nobody cared, but she kept talking. The plan was clear: Dad would walk me down the aisle, and we’d dance to “My Girl,” a song Mom played when I was sad. The aisle walk felt stiff—Dad seemed unsure—but I focused on the dance, hoping it’d mean something. When the DJ called for the father-daughter dance, I looked for him, my heart pounding with cautious hope.
Dad stayed seated, clutching Karen’s hand as she murmured something. I approached their table, nervous but smiling. “Time to dance,” I said. He avoided my eyes, saying, “We’re sitting this out.” I froze. “Why?” He muttered, “Karen’s feeling ignored. You could’ve mentioned her or let her speak.” My stomach dropped. He wasn’t just ditching the dance—he was picking her, again, with everyone watching.
I hurried to the shadows by the DJ, fighting tears. The DJ, clueless, announced us, and the spotlight found me, alone. I stood, smiling weakly as the song began, my heart shattering. Then Mike stepped forward, grabbing the mic. “Some folks don’t get it,” he said. “But I do.” He took my hand, and we danced, my tears falling against his shoulder, not from hurt but from love. In his arms, I felt enough.
Dad didn’t know Mike’s great-uncle, a quiet guest, was his manager. After our dance, he walked to Dad’s table, steady and calm. “If you can’t show up for your daughter today,” he said, “you’re done at work. Don’t come in Monday.” Karen’s plate clattered, and Dad went silent, his face red. We haven’t spoken since. I sent him a photo of me and Mike dancing, a quiet jab at his choice.
Karen ditched him when his job fell through, rumored to be “finding herself” in Texas. Mike held me one night, saying, “You’ll never chase love again.” That dance showed me I have my family, and I’m stronger than Dad’s rejection.
