AT MY SISTER’S WEDDING MY FATHER DRAGGED ME BY THE NECK—BECAUSE I WOULDN’T HAND OVER MY SAVINGS FOR HER FAIRYTALE.
The ballroom smelled like florist glue and spilled champagne. Violins sawed at “Canon in D,” chandeliers throwing coins of light across lace and sequins. I stood with an envelope in my hand—my years of double shifts and takeout dinners—while my sister floated past in imported tulle and entitlement.
“Transfer it,” my father hissed, palm out. “Family first.”
My mother’s mouth tilted into that practiced smirk. “Don’t be dramatic,” she cooed, eyes on my envelope, not my face. I tucked it away. “No.”
His fingers clamped the back of my neck. The mic squealed. Chairs scraped. He hauled me past the sweetheart table as gasps snapped like dry twigs. “Dogs don’t marry,” my mother laughed into her flute, “they just beg.” The bouquet trembled in my sister’s hands; a groomsman dropped his glass. I tasted metal and roses and the end of something I’d tried to love.
On the floor, I stared at my torn hem and realized the only blessing here was clarity. They wanted obedience. They’d get silence—the kind that moves money, freezes accounts, and calls an audience when truth arrives.
When the screen behind the cake blinked to life, the room went very, very quiet.
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Continued in the first c0mment ⬇️💬