“I want to be honest with you both.”
Dad swallowed. “Laura and I… we’re together.”
The room tilted. I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. None came.
“You’re… together?”
“We didn’t plan this,” Laura said quickly. “Please believe that. Grief just… does things to people.”
Dad nodded. “We leaned on each other. We understood the same pain. One thing led to another.”
My brother stood up. “You’re saying this three months after Mom died. Three months.”
“Please believe that. Grief just… does things to people.”
“I know how it sounds,” Dad replied. “But life is short. Losing your mother taught me that.”
That sentence burned. I wanted to scream that she was the one who lost her life. Not him.
Instead, I sat there, frozen.
Laura squeezed Dad’s hand harder. “We love each other. And we’re getting married.”
The words landed wrong. Too fast. Too rehearsed. I remember nodding. I don’t remember deciding to. My brother didn’t say anything. He just walked out of the room.
“We love each other. And we’re getting married.”
Later that night, he called me.
“This isn’t right. None of this feels right.”
“It’s grief,” I replied automatically. “People do strange things.”
I don’t know who I was trying to convince.
***
Over the next few weeks, everything moved quickly. Quietly. No big announcements. No engagement party. Just paperwork, appointments, and whispered conversations when they thought we weren’t listening.
I don’t know who I was trying to convince.
Laura tried to include me.
“Do you want to help choose the flowers?”
“I thought you might like to see the venue.”
I always declined.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Do whatever you want.”
Dad pulled me aside once. “You’re okay with this, right?”
Laura tried to include me.
I hesitated. Then nodded. “If you’re happy, that’s what matters.”
His shoulders relaxed. Like he’d just been forgiven for something I didn’t fully understand yet.
***
The wedding invitation arrived six weeks later. Small ceremony. Close family only. I stared at it for a long time. Mom’s name was nowhere on it. No mention. No acknowledgment of how little time had passed.
Still, I went.
Mom’s name was nowhere on it. No mention.
I told myself I was doing the mature thing. The loving thing. The daughter thing. Standing there on the wedding day, surrounded by smiles and champagne and soft music, I repeated that lie in my head.
This is just grief. This is just two broken people finding comfort.
Then Robert walked in late, eyes wild, jacket half-on. He grabbed my arm.
“Claire. We need to talk. Right now.”
And before I could ask why, he said the sentence that cracked everything open.
“Dad isn’t who he pretends to be.”
I repeated that lie in my head.
***
Robert didn’t stop walking until we were almost outside. The music faded behind us. Laughter spilled through the open doors. Someone clinked a glass and cheered. It felt obscene.
“What is going on?” I hissed. “You missed the ceremony. You look like you ran here.”
“I almost didn’t come,” he said. His hand was shaking when he finally let go of my arm. “I was told not to.”
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