I’m Noah, and five years after my wife’s death, I took my daughter to my best friend’s wedding. When the bride’s veil was lifted, my world collapsed, and my daughter asked, “Daddy, why are you crying?” The truth reshaped my life.
Years ago, I didn’t want to attend that crowded party. My pal Ryan pulled me along, saying it’d cheer me up after grueling construction shifts. The guests were posh, and I felt awkward in my faded shirt. Then I saw Sophie. She was just dropping off a friend’s keys, but our eyes locked, and something clicked. “Who’s that?” I asked Ryan. He smirked, “Sophie? Her family’s rich. Don’t bother.” But I walked over. “I’m Noah,” I said, extending my hand. “Sophie,” she replied, her smile bright. “You look as out of place as I feel.” We talked for hours, her warmth disarming. “My parents wouldn’t approve of you,” she said, laughing, as I walked her out. “Problem?” I asked. She grinned. “Not really.”
We married six months later. Her parents cut her off, but Sophie said, “I only want you.” We moved into a small apartment. I worked construction and studied architecture; Sophie taught art classes. We were happy until our daughter, Ava, was born. Sophie’s spark dimmed. “My friend bought a lake house,” she said one night, eating ramen, Ava asleep. “Nice,” I replied, reviewing designs. “She invited us, but we’re too broke,” she said sharply. “We’ll get there,” I said. “When?” she snapped. “I’m done waiting.” Arguments grew. “This isn’t my life,” she’d say, like I’d deceived her. “You knew me,” I shot back. “Maybe I was wrong,” she said icily.
One day, I came home with coffee, but Sophie was gone. Her clothes, her purse—vanished. A note in Ava’s crib read: “Divorce me. This was a mistake. Ava’s with the neighbor. She’s yours.” I called her, no answer. I went to her parents’ estate, but guards stopped me. “Leave,” they said. Divorce papers soon arrived, ending her rights to Ava. Six months later, her father called. “Sophie’s dead,” he said coldly. “Car accident. Don’t contact us.” I sank, crying as Ava wailed. They blocked me from her grave. I focused on Ava and work, earning my degree, launching a design business. Ava grew joyful, her mother’s smile in her eyes.
Five years on, Ryan invited us to his wedding. “Go, Ava?” I asked as she painted. “Cake?” she asked. I chuckled. “Big cake.” She nodded. The beach wedding was gorgeous, waves crashing softly. Ryan hugged us. “Mr. Success!” he teased. Ava smiled. As the veiled bride walked, I held Ava’s hand. Ryan lifted the veil, and I gasped. Sophie was there, alive. Tears flowed as Ava asked, “Daddy, why are you crying?” Sophie’s eyes widened, and she fled. “Stay with Aunt Kate,” I told Ava, following. In a hall, Sophie shook. “You’re dead,” I said, voice breaking. “They told me you died.” She whispered, “I didn’t know they said that.” I laughed, pained. “I mourned you, Sophie.”
Rage flared. “You left Ava, faked your death!” She winced. “I needed a new life. My father fixed it.” Ryan appeared, stunned. “What’s this?” I turned. “She’s my ex-wife, left me and Ava, then vanished.” Ryan faced Sophie. “You faked your death?” She nodded, crying. “I’m sorry,” she said. Ryan left, heartbroken. The wedding ended. Sophie’s parents took her away, ignoring me. Weeks later, Ryan and I shared drinks. “She lied,” he said. “No mention of you or Ava.” I nodded. “Not your fault.” He asked if I was okay. I smiled. “Yeah. I see now it wasn’t me.” With Ava and my business, I felt whole, finally free from the past.
