On my wedding day, my son and my daughter-in-law mocked my new husband in front of 400 guests. They said he wasn’t a stepfather. They said he was trash. My daughter-in-law’s entire family laughed out loud while I felt the world crumbling beneath my feet. I stood up, trembling with rage, and kicked everyone out of the party.
It was then that my husband looked at me with a calmness I had never seen before and said something that changed my life forever.
“Honey, I’m a billionaire.”
But let me tell you how I got to that moment. Because what happened next was something none of them ever imagined.
It all started three hours earlier when I, Barbara, at 61 years old, was standing in the most beautiful event hall I had ever seen. Four hundred guests filled every ivory velvet upholstered chair. The tables shimmered with cream silk tablecloths and centerpieces of white and gold flowers that looked like they were ripped straight from the pages of a bridal magazine. I had hired the best musicians, the best catering, all paid for with my life savings.
I wanted that day to be perfect because after 15 years of widowhood, of loneliness, of nights crying in silence, I had finally found love again. Robert was by my side at the altar in his modest but impeccable gray suit, his silver hair neatly combed, his hands weathered by years of honest work. He wasn’t rich. He didn’t have a fancy car. He lived in a small apartment in a simple neighborhood. But when he looked at me, I felt like the most valuable woman in the universe. That was the only thing that mattered to me.
Then I heard the first laugh. Loud, mocking, poisonous. It came from the third row, exactly where my son Jason was sitting next to his wife, Tiffany. He was 38 years old. He was wearing an Italian suit that cost more than $3,000. He wore a Rolex on his wrist and had always, always made it clear to me that money was the most important thing in life.
Tiffany was worse. That 35-year-old woman in her blood red dress that was a size too small, her long nails painted black, and her attitude of superiority had made my life a living hell from the day she married my son. She came from a family that thought they were high society, even though we all knew her father had made his fortune with shady business deals.
“Just look at that,” I heard Tiffany whisper to her mother, but loud enough for me to hear. “The old lady is marrying a hobo.”
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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