When my father vanished the night before my wedding, I thought he was punishing me for choosing Paul over his warnings. Then his lawyer handed me an attic key three days later and said Dad had left it for me only if I married the man he had spent months trying to stop.
On the morning of my wedding, sunlight spilled across the bridal suite like a promise. I sat in front of the mirror in my silk robe, watching the stylist pin tiny pearls into my hair, and tried to ignore the small, cold thought turning circles in my chest.
My father, Byron, had not called.
The night before my wedding, after our fight, he had simply walked back to his hotel without looking at me.
I kept replaying that first dinner with my fiancé, Paul, six months earlier. Dad had narrowed his eyes every time Paul reached across the table and answered a question meant for me.
“She loves her job, but she’ll slow down after the wedding,” Paul had said, smiling.
“Will she?” Dad asked.
I kicked my father under the table.
Later, in the car, he had been gentle, which somehow made it worse.
“He’s charming because he has to be, Lydia,” Dad said. “Not because he’s kind.”
“You don’t even know him, Dad,” I protested.
“I know how he looks at you when you stop agreeing.”
I laughed it off. When I told Paul about the conversation with Dad, he pulled me close.
“Your father is scared of losing his little girl, Liddy. If we keep letting him in, we’ll never have our own life.”
Paul’s words had sounded so reasonable then.
***
The stylist stepped back. “All done, Miss Lydia.”
I smiled at her, and my phone buzzed on the vanity. Paul, again.
“Did your dad show up yet?” his text read.
“No,” I typed back.
There was a pause, then: “He’ll come around. Don’t let him ruin our day.”
I set the phone face down. A flicker passed through me, the same flicker I had felt a week ago when I caught Paul scrolling through my messages while I was making dinner.
He had laughed when I asked and said, “Just checking the address for the caterer, babe.”
I had believed him. I had wanted to.
A knock at the door snapped me back. The wedding coordinator stepped in, her face pale, holding her clipboard like a shield.
“Lydia, sweetheart. Your mother asked me to tell you. The hotel manager just called.”
“Your father’s room. It’s empty.”
The pearls in my hair suddenly felt heavy.
“Empty how?”
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