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.
“He’s charming because he has to be, Lydia.”
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.”
Paul’s words had sounded so reasonable then.
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.
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