When my fiancée began organizing our wedding, I figured the toughest choices would be picking cake tastes and spots for the ceremony. I never dreamed the true fight would involve the one person who meant the world to me—my daughter.
I never dreamed that arranging a wedding, meant to be a joyful gathering of love and togetherness, could make me doubt all I believed about the woman I planned to wed.
At 45, I wasn’t innocent about romance any longer. I’d wed once before, endured the sorrow of a split, and been gifted with the greatest light in my days: my 11-year-old daughter, Elowen.
Elowen was my rock; she’s clever, witty in a surprising way, and tougher than many grown-ups I meet. The breakup had weighed on her, but she faced it with a strength that left me in awe.
Her mom and I parted on good terms, splitting time with her fairly, and I promised myself that whatever came my way, Elowen would never sense she ranked behind another soul.
When I met Isolde, my former fiancée, she seemed like the ideal piece to add to our small circle. At 39, she was gentle, understanding, and for four years, she truly seemed to cherish Elowen.
The three of us filled weekends with making meals, viewing films, and giggling until late. So when I knelt and asked Isolde to join me in marriage, it seemed like the right move forward. She wept, embraced me, and yelled “yes” so fiercely that a server nearby clapped.
From then on, Isolde dove into wedding details with endless drive. Locations, blooms, gowns for attendants—she aimed for flawlessness in every bit. I respected her zeal, even if sometimes it struck me as more suited to a glossy page than a real bond. Yet I reminded myself that her joy made it worthwhile.
Then arrived the evening that shifted it all.
We lounged on the sofa, amid wedding journals and cloth samples, when Isolde glanced my way with a grin.
“Guess what?” she said, her gaze bright. “I want my niece as the flower girl. She’ll be utterly sweet.”
“That sounds fine,” I answered right away. “But I’d like Elowen to join as a flower girl too. She’d adore it.”
Her grin faded, and the light in her eyes turned chill. “I don’t see Elowen suiting the role,” she stated plainly.
I stared, unsure I’d caught it right. “What do you mean she ‘doesn’t suit’? She’s my girl. Naturally, she’ll take part in the day.”
Isolde folded her arms, her tone biting. “The wedding group is up to me, and Elowen won’t serve as flower girl.”
The statement struck like a blow. My ribs squeezed, and rage surged. “If Elowen stays out of the wedding, then the whole thing ends.”
I left before she replied, fetched Elowen from her space, and took her for frozen treats. She perched opposite me in the seat, kicking her feet and beaming purely.
“I bet I’d shine in any outfit Isolde chooses,” she murmured, and my spirit cracked.
That night, we skipped returning home. I messaged Isolde that I required distance, and as I settled in a buddy’s extra room sorting through the mess, my device hummed with a fresh note from her mom.
“You’re blowing this out of proportion,” it stated. “Your girl doesn’t need to join your wedding. Quit the theatrics.”
And that marked the instant I grasped all I’d shaped with Isolde might not hold true.
When I rolled up the drive next dawn, my gut knotted. Isolde’s ride sat in view, but I spotted another engine humming at the edge—her mother’s. The view alone gripped my chest, yet I pushed myself through the entry.
The place hung strangely still. Isolde perched at the eating table, fingers locked firm around a half-drunk mug of brew rising in steam before her.
Her gaze lifted as I neared, then fell swift to the surface, like she’d practiced lines and faltered. I held back from seating; I simply lingered, gazing, awaiting her voice. When none came, I drew a seat and dropped across from her.
“Why keep Elowen from the wedding?” My words held firmer than I’d guessed. “Why fight it so hard?”
Isolde’s mouth quivered, her sight flicking to the pane where her mom’s vehicle lingered. Then she dropped her view, her tone faint as a breath.
“I hoped… once wed… you could shift to a dad for special days only.”
I went still as my thoughts wrestled the phrase. “What?”
Her sight locked on mine at last, but empty. “I didn’t want her image filling our home if she wouldn’t linger much. It could muddle things.”
It struck like a fist to my core, stealing every breath. My head buzzed, and briefly, words escaped me.
“You wished me to drop shared care?” My tone climbed, splintering with wrath. “To glimpse my daughter just holidays? Isolde, she’s my own. She tops all. You knew that from the start!”
Isolde recoiled, moisture pooling in her gaze. “I figured after we launched our shared path, you’d view it fresh. That you’d… ease off some.”
“EASE OFF?” I sprang from my spot, palms quaking. “She’s no flaw to shed, Isolde. She’s my child. My everything. How could you imagine—”
I halted, tugging the promise band from her hand before she stirred. The band chilled my skin as I placed it midway on the wood. Her gaze bulged in alarm as she lunged, clutching for my wrist.
“Don’t ruin us,” she begged, her words fracturing. “I’ll adjust. The wedding can go on! Beg you, hold back.”
I drew away, head shaking gradual. The fury had faded to denser weight—revulsion, letdown, and loss.
“No, Isolde. The harm’s set. I won’t wed one who views my daughter as replaceable.”
Her features folded, moisture trailing her skin. She thrust her seat back with a scrape on the boards, then charged from the space, her cries ringing the halls. Soon after, the entry banged fierce, shaking the panels.
I remained solo, eyeing the promise band sparkling under the stark eating glow. The thuds began scarce breaths later, knuckles on timber, keen and heated. I swung the entry to face her mother, Greer, glaring fierce, her sight aflame.
“You’re acting foolish!” she bit out prior to my breath. “Isolde offers you tomorrow, and you toss it for a kid who’ll depart grown!”
I gaped at her, wordless in shock. The nerve. My daughter, my very kin, brushed off like a passing bother. My chin set, and wordless, I shut the entry in her path.
From beyond, her keen cry pierced, dulled yet wild:
“You’ll rue this!”
I leaned my brow to the panel, heaving deep, my tone hushed but sure.
“No,” I breathed to the quiet, “the sole rue would be lingering.”
I couldn’t cease looping Isolde’s phrase in my mind. Special days dad. As though Elowen were a duty to slot in my calendar. As though her spot in my world shrank to scant weekends yearly and a frame on the ledge.
No, that held no debate. Elowen forms my world. Ever has, ever will. And Isolde, with her grins and ceremony schemes, had unveiled her core. The front had dropped, and none could mend it.
That dusk, Elowen sat at the meal board, sketching, her young forehead creased in focus. As I entered, she raised her face, her beam flashing the one that always melts me.
“Hey, Dad! Care to view?” She lifted a drawing of us two, simple lines, sure, but clearly me in spectacles and her with flowing tail. Overhead, she’d added a vast crimson shape.
My gullet swelled. “That’s lovely, dear.” I claimed a seat beside her. “Hear me, I must share something key.”
Her tool halted in flight. “About the ceremony?”
I dipped my head slow. “No ceremony now.”
She angled her chin, intrigued more than grieved. “On my account?”
The query cut deep. “Never. Not a bit. Blame it not on you. The ceremony ends ’cause Isolde misses how vital you stand to me. And one who can’t cherish us both earns none.”
Elowen hushed a beat, then breathed, “So back to you and me solo?”
I grinned, sweeping a lock from her cheek. “You and me. Eternal.”
Her small beam rekindled, shy first, then vivid. “I prefer that.”
I laughed soft, the grip in my ribs loosening. “Fine. And know what?”
Her gaze spread. “What?”
“That escape we set in Bora Bora? You and I claim it. Solo us, warmth, shore, and endless frozen treats.”
Her breath caught sharp and full. “Truly?! Me? On an escape?”
“Sure,” I said, tousling her locks. “We’ll name it a dad-girl getaway. Thoughts?”
Elowen leaped from her perch, looping her arms ’round my throat with might near to topple. “Top. Getaway. Always!” she crowed.
I clasped her close, my core full with what Isolde could never reach—true bond, boundless and clear. The sort that holds firm, yields not, and picks kin over ease.
‘Cause I grasped one truth clear: I might swap a fiancée. But my daughter? Irreplaceable.
And as Elowen drew free, sight aglow with thrill, she breathed the sole words that counted:
“Dad… You and me. Eternal, yes?”
I beamed, pressed my lips to her brow, and murmured low, “Eternal, Elowen. Eternal.”
