My mother never tried to hide it.
My brother was her world.
I was just… there.
If he wanted something, he got it. If I needed something, I was told not to be dramatic. I learned early not to ask for attention, because none was coming.
By the time I turned eighteen, I was exhausted.
So I left.
I moved out, found work, struggled, healed—and waited. Surely she’d call. Surely she’d ask if I was okay.
She never did.
Years passed. Then more years.
Twelve years later, I was standing at the altar, about to marry the man who had shown me what real love looked like. My mother wasn’t invited. I didn’t even know if she knew I was getting married.
Just as the officiant began to speak, the church doors slammed open.
A man I had never seen before walked in, breathing hard.
“STOP!” he shouted.
Everyone turned. My fiancé squeezed my hand. I thought it was some cruel mistake.
The man looked straight at me—and his voice broke.
“Before you say ‘I do,’ you deserve to know the truth.”
He explained that he was my biological father. He had tried to be part of my life, but my mother had pushed him away. She told everyone—including my brother—that I wasn’t worth the trouble. That forgetting me was easier.
I felt like the ground disappeared beneath me.
He said he had searched for me for years. When he heard I was getting married, he knew he couldn’t stay silent anymore.
There were tears. There were gasps.
And for the first time in my life, someone stood up for me.
I didn’t stop the wedding.
But I started a new chapter—one where I finally knew I had always been worth loving.
