My stepdad, Tim, raised me since I was 8

 

My stepdad, Tim, raised me since I was 8. Dad hated Tim. For my wedding, my dad said he’d pay all the expenses, but on one condition:
Tim can’t attend.

Tim agreed and didn’t say a word. On the big day, as Dad was walking me down the aisle, Tim stands quietly at the very back of the church, barely visible behind the tall floral arch.

I see him. I see his

hands clasped tightly in front of him, the familiar tremble in his fingers when he’s nervous. His eyes meet mine just for a second—just long enough for me to see the smile he tries to hide.

I freeze.

My father’s arm tightens around mine. “Keep walking,” he mutters under his breath, his tone stiff, rehearsed. Everyone is watching.

But something in my che

twists. It’s not nerves. It’s not fear. It’s grief, maybe. Or guilt.

Because Tim never missed a single piano recital. Not one parent-teacher night. He was the one who picked me up from sleepovers when I got scared. The one who built me a dollhouse from scratch, even though he had no clue what he was doing. The one who sat beside me on the bathroom flooruring my worst teenage breakdown, holding my hand like I was made of porcelain.

And now I’m walking toward my future without him.

I take another step. My dress feels heavier than before. The lace around my shoulders itches like thorns.

Then I stop.

My groom, Jason, is smiling at the altar. The minister waits patiently, book in hand. The guests murmur,