I am Immani, 32 years old, and I am the failure of my family. At my sister’s million-dollar wedding, I walked in alone. My father screamed, “She couldn’t even find a date,” before pushing me backward into the marble fountain.
The guests actually clapped. As I stood there dripping wet, I looked him in the eye and smiled.
“Remember this moment,” I said.
They had no idea my secret husband, a man whose name they only read on the Forbes list, was already diverting his private jet.
Before I tell you exactly what happened when he arrived, let me know where you are watching from in the comments. Hit that like and subscribe button if you have ever been the black sheep and dreamed of the day you could finally show your truth.
The estate was breathtaking, a sprawling Atlanta mansion dripping with old-world money, the kind my family desperately wanted to be part of. I stepped out of my ride share alone, clutching my purse.
The sounds of a string quartet and light laughter drifted from the garden party. I took a deep breath. I just had to get through this cocktail hour.
The whispers started immediately.
I saw the wives of my father’s business partners pause, their eyes raking over me before turning back to their champagne flutes. I saw them almost immediately: my sister Danielle, the golden child, looking radiant in her custom Vera Wang gown, and her new husband, Chad. He was exactly what my parents had always wanted for her, white, wealthy, and from a family with a name that opened doors.
Chad spotted me first.
I saw him lean over, his blonde hair almost brushing her veil, and whisper something in her ear, his lip curled just slightly. He didn’t bother to hide his disdain. Danielle’s smile froze.
She handed her champagne glass to a passing waiter and marched across the lawn, her dress brushing the perfect green grass. Her face was a mask of perfect makeup and pure frustration.
“Immani, what on earth are you doing?” Her voice was a harsh, controlled whisper. “Why are you here alone?
You told me you were bringing a plus one. You promised.”
My stomach tightened. I clutched my bag, the memory of the phone call with my mother two weeks ago flashing in my mind.
When I had nervously mentioned I was seeing someone, someone serious, my mother, Brenda, had laughed that high, sharp laugh of hers.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
TAP → NEXT PAGE → 👇
