And then my parents called out of nowhere to congratulate me.
At first, I thought it would be a brief, awkward conversation. They asked about my job, my apartment, my life—basic questions you’d ask someone you actually knew. Then my dad, suddenly, asked if he could walk me down the aisle.
It stunned me. This man hadn’t been present for most of my life, but he wanted the public role.
I told him I hadn’t thought about it yet. He said it would be embarrassing if I didn’t ask him, that people would question us. He made it about appearances immediately.
Still, part of me—an old part that wanted to believe in healing—hesitated. I was entering a new chapter. Maybe this was an opening.
So I said yes.
My dad sounded overjoyed, like he’d won something.
Wedding planning got busy. I asked my high school girlfriends—my chosen sisters—to be bridesmaids, and they said yes through happy tears. We planned a bachelorette trip to Vegas. We posted photos. We laughed until our stomachs hurt.
Then my parents called again, and the tone had changed.
They were disappointed I hadn’t included Vicki.
I told them I wasn’t involving Vicki in anything. Not the bachelorette trip, not my wedding, not my life.
It was the first time I said it with full certainty.
My parents acted like they couldn’t understand what I meant. Like the punch, the lies, the years of cruelty were mild weather we should all forget once the sun came out.
I told them Vicki had never apologized. I told them I wasn’t comfortable. I told them my relationship with her was complicated and I wasn’t sacrificing my wedding to pretend it wasn’t.
My mother insisted inviting Vicki wasn’t a big deal. My father warned relatives would gossip. My mother even tried the angle of my in-laws judging me for excluding my sister.
I laughed—actually laughed—and told them my fiancé and his family knew my history and didn’t care.
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